Everything Trying
by BackToTheStart
Summary: A single mistake can change the rest of your life. Forgiving yourself is the hardest thing to do but some friendships can never be broken. James Wilson learnt this the hard way.
1. Chapter 1

**A very different kind of fic from me this time. This wouldn't leave me alone, and I just had to get it out. Hope you guys enjoy it. **

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><p><em><strong>2024<strong>_

For as long as I can remember, PPTH has been my second home.

Marina used to be my nanny, up till I was nine. She had to quit when her daughter got sick. Since then, I've been going to the hospital every day after school. Sometimes Uncle James picks me up, sometimes Mom's assistant, sometimes Mom. Rarely Mom, though. Being Dean of Medicine of one of the top teaching hospitals in the country means you're a really busy person.

I know probably every single inch of this hospital. Uncle James says I used to wander off to roam the hallways, often giving both him and Mom the fright of their lives when I disappeared. All the nurses and doctors know me, and they don't mind me exploring or hanging around the nurses' station. Unless I got under their feet.

I spend my time in Mom's office when she isn't meeting anyone important. When she's busy, I head to Uncle James' office. If he has a patient, I sometimes hang out with Drs Chase and Foreman in the Diagnostics Department. If they're all busy, it's the cafeteria. Sometimes, if Dr Cameron isn't on duty in the ER, I'll hang out with her.

Dr Chase and Cameron are married, and their kids, Greg and Michelle, are like my little brothers and sisters. So is Dr Foreman's son, Carl. In fact, it's like we're all part of this funny little mixed up family.

Uncle James is still my favorite though. He's been my favorite since I was little. He has these chocolate brown eyes and floppy hair. There are streaks of grey through his hair now, and his hairline is receding with each year passing by (as I like to remind him, getting a glare and a gentle rap on my head each time). But he's still extremely charming and well… _attractive_. He says I used to ask him why all the nurses would giggle and speak to him in _that way_. Apparently I used to ask a million questions, some appropriate and some just plain awkward. That was obviously one of the latter.

So now I know they were all flirting with him. They still flirt with him even though he's on the wrong side of fifty now. But Uncle James isn't all looks and no brains. He's the Head of Oncology in PPTH. Apparently, he was one of the youngest in the country when he was first appointed. He has this amazing ability to connect with his patients. Not to mention his much-higher-than-average cure rate.

Mom says that a close friend of theirs used to describe Uncle James as "someone people say thank you to, even when he tells them they're dying". I think that's the perfect way of describing just how good he is at his job.

Some of my friends who want to become doctors envy me for who I've grown up around. Apparently, Uncle James is one of the top oncologists in the country. Drs Chase and Foreman are world famous, and many would kill to become their fellows and learn from them. Dr Cameron is head of the ER. So yeah, I am pretty lucky I guess.

I still don't know if I want to become a doctor though. But one thing is for sure – Uncle James is my role model.

I wrote about him once, when we were supposed to do an essay in school. "My Role Model" was the title. I showed him the essay which had a huge 'Well Done' emblazoned across the top, and his eyes were all sparkly and I'm pretty sure he teared up.

What I remember vividly is the reaction both he and my mom had. The first thing he said after he had composed himself was, "House would _so_ get a kick out of this."

Mom smiled at him, and said softly, "He called you the Boy Wonder Oncologist."

"Yeah." Uncle James smiled, "he did."

I was ten then, and didn't know much. But on hindsight, I think they seemed… sad.

* * *

><p>Uncle James got married when I was twelve. It was his fifth marriage, I think. It was also his last. <em>Thank goodness<em>, said Mom, rolling her eyes. Aunt Jessica is really nice. Their daughter, Abigail, is the cutest little five year old ever.

The wedding was wonderful, thanks to Aunt Cameron, Aunt Jessica and Mom's meticulous planning. But there was one thing that stood out for me, and that was the fact that Uncle James didn't have a best man.

I remember asking Dr Chase about it. He was sitting next to me. I thought he would be the best man. But he ruffled my hair absentmindedly as he gazed at the empty spot next to Uncle James. "He couldn't make it," he said. "And Wilson wouldn't want anyone else."

* * *

><p>My best friend is Jake, and his parents run the convalescent home, Meadow View. It's just a few minutes' walk away from the hospital, which it is affiliated to. In fact, that's how we met. Uncle James and Mom went over one day for a meeting, and I tagged along. I was hanging around in the waiting area, listening to my iPod when I met him.<p>

Last week, Jake asked if I could spare the time to play the piano at Meadow View. The regular, an old lady, had left to go stay with her children in California. I love playing the piano. Mom is pretty proud of that fact. I once won a regional competition.

So of course I agreed, and so I headed over to Meadow View. It's a pleasant, homely place. Sunlight streamed in through the large windows, and the walls were painted a nice cheery yellow. Paintings and drawings adorned the walls. The nurses wore smiles on their faces, and were kind and gentle. It overlooked a large meadow that had beautiful flowers, and one could hear the birds chirping when one stood on the patio. The rooms weren't cold and clinical like a hospital's. Each private room had photographs of family and friends, and was customized to suit each resident. Families could put what they want in the room, as long as the standard medical equipment like oxygen tanks, monitors and machines were there.

It was a lovely place. One of the best in the country.

One of the staff led me over to the piano, a beautiful baby grand. The patients were gathered around, sitting on the comfortable sofa or armchairs. Those who could walk were helped and guided out by the staff. Some were wheeled out in their wheelchairs.

I looked at my audience as they were settled down. Others might have been freaked out, but I wasn't. I grew up in a hospital after all. Most of the residents were quiet. Some talked, to themselves or to their neighbors. Some wore bibs because they were drooling. Some hummed tuneless tunes to themselves, swaying to some unknown beat. Some gazed vacantly at some faraway distance, absently fidgeting with their clothes. Some of them bore visible reminders of the reason they were in Meadow View, with vivid scars on their body and even dents on their head. Many more lay in their rooms, bedridden and in deep comas, never having recovered, only kept alive by the machines around them.

I played the piano for a good hour. It didn't escape me that when I played the piano, most of the residents, even those who didn't seem all that aware of their surroundings, relaxed. I could see why Meadow View was so insistent that piano time continue to be part of the schedule, leading Jake's parents to ask him to get me over here.

The session ended when Jake whispered in my ear that it was their dinnertime. I ended off with a cheerful piece, and then took an exaggerated little bow as some of the residents clapped for me with sheer joy and laughter on their faces. I laughed along with them, as did Jake and the other staff, and the sitting room was filled with the melody of laughter. Something told me that laughter and joy wasn't rare around here, and a little part of me inside felt happy that they were well taken care of here. There were far too many horror stories of ill-treatment at nursing and convalescent homes.

I was seated on the piano bench, packing my things when a wheelchair appeared in front of me. I looked up from my backpack and the first thing that struck me was how blue his eyes were. They were wide open and gazing at the piano, and he shifted in the chair, hand reaching out towards the piano. He couldn't move his arm very much. He could only lift it a few inches before it dropped back down onto the armrest of the wheelchair, sliding off and falling to his side. It was only then I realized that he couldn't support his own head, instead relying on the brace attached to the wheelchair to keep it upright. The nurse bent over to place his arm back onto his lap. He grunted with frustration, his tongue sticking out slightly of his mouth as he tried again to reach out.

"This is Greg," the nurse standing behind the wheelchair smiled, "And Mrs White never goes off without playing for him a tune by The Rolling Stones. It's the highlight of his week, so could you…?"

I looked at this man in front of me. His blue eyes were like nothing I'd ever seen before. His gaze was slightly blank, with no bright spark, though I was pretty sure there used to be one, before whatever had caused him to end up in Meadow View had happened. But he stared determinedly at the piano, still squirming in his seat.

" 'Ano," he said haltingly. "Play."

He looked into my eyes, and I thought I saw a hint of pleading flit across in his eyes before he turned back to stare at the piano keys again.

Luckily, Uncle James listened to quite a lot of The Rolling Stones. "Never really was a fan of them," he used to say, "But they've grown on me over the last decade or so."

"Sure," I smiled at Greg as I gently touched his thin forearm. I could feel it trembling slightly in my grasp. "I have a friend named Greg too. Such a coincidence, huh?" He grunted, though I have no idea whether he understood what I said.

I launched into a version of You Can't Always Get What You Want, putting my own little jazz spin on it. Midway through the song, I snuck a peek at Greg. He was entranced, staring at my hands as they danced across the black and white keys, a little secret smile on his lips.

As the song ended, Greg sighed. I would say it was almost like a sigh of content. He tore his gaze away from the piano, and his lips curled up so very slightly as he looked at me.

"I must say he enjoyed that very much… A different spin on the Stones, but definitely one he seemed to enjoy," laughed the nurse, "Thanks for playing, hun, Or he would be restless for the next few days. Come on Greg, dinner time."

Jake came to stand beside me. "The Stones are ancient, Rach! How do you know how to play the Stones?"

I shrugged. "Uncle James loves them. He blasts them in his car."

"It was lovely."

"Yeah… Yeah, it is…" I mused, still thinking of how it had such an effect on the man with the brilliant blue eyes. "… Jake? I wouldn't mind doing this on a regular basis."

He grinned. "Just what my parents and I hoped for you to say."

So I visited Meadow View every Wednesday and Saturday, each time playing for an hour, sometimes even two. I would head there after school before going to PPTH. I didn't bother letting Mom or Uncle James know. It was after all, nothing out of the ordinary. They knew I sometimes played the piano for school events.

And after each session, a nurse would wheel Greg over to the piano. Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, The Rolling Stones, the blues. The nurses seemed to have a list of music that Greg liked. So for that additional half an hour each time, I would play for Greg, the sole member of an audience listening to a private concert of his favorites.


	2. Chapter 2

**This is just the beginning. We'll soon go back in time to learn about the events leading up to the present.**

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><p><em><strong>2024<strong>_

Amanda Cho was Dr James Wilson's secretary. This was her third year working for him, after his previous secretary had retired after eighteen long years with Dr Wilson.

"Amanda, could you please send these files to the respective stations? Oh, and I'm going out for lunch. Please take down messages for anyone who might be looking for me."

Dr Wilson emerged from the office, coat in his arms. He smiled at her, ever polite, despite the fact that he was running late and noticeably flustered. Amanda could understand why Nora, the previous secretary, had stayed for fifteen years. Dr Wilson instilled a kind of loyalty in you. He was a good boss. A top quality doctor. Never demanding nor unreasonable. He expected good work, but he made you _want_ to do good work anyway. And he was always polite and considerate.

"Sure thing, Dr Wilson. Oh by the way, you were running late, so I took the liberty of picking up the fries for you. Piping hot and fresh. I got you a pasta salad as well. Oh, tea for you, and a chocolate milkshake."

"You're a lifesaver. I'll be back in…" Dr Wilson looked at his watch. "… an hour and a half?"

"Yup. You have a two o'clock appointment with Mr Wheeler."

"What would I do without you? Thanks, Amanda."

Amanda watched as Dr Wilson hurried down the hallway, shrugging on his coat as he headed towards the elevators. She knew where he was going. He had a routine. The whole hospital knew. Nora had made sure that her successor was briefed properly, and knew what to expect and do for Dr Wilson.

Every single day at lunchtime, Dr Wilson was not reachable. No lunchtime meetings, consults or appointments. It was strictly off-limits. He would pick up a reuben, or some fries, with special instructions for them to be in bite-sized pieces. Sometimes, a chocolate milkshake, ice-cream, or cake. And then it was a few minutes' walk over to Meadow View. Rain or shine, snowfall or not, he never failed to make his daily trip over.

As his secretary, she was one of the few to know that two hours each Saturday and Sunday morning were spent at Meadow View too. And sometimes if he ended early for the day as well.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Dr Cuddy and some of the doctors from the Diagnostics Department would go with him. But everyone knew that Tuesdays and Thursdays were the days that Dr Wilson would go alone. Just him. For that short lunch break, it would be just Dr Wilson and his best friend.

_Never disturb Dr Wilson during lunch,_ said Nora. _Never. Take messages, apologise to patients, do whatever you need to do. Just never disturb him during lunch._

* * *

><p>"Hi Dr Wilson. I was just wondering when you were showing up."<p>

"My appointment overran. And please, Jen, how long have we known each other? Just call me James."

"I've known you long enough to notice that you have a few extra inches around the waist now," she teased, laughing at his embarrassment. "I'm kidding, James. You're still very much the lady-killer."

"Hey, I'm a one-woman man now," Wilson defended. "How is he today?"

"He's good. Obviously waiting for you. We had a pretty good morning. He's a bit tired, though. Didn't sleep that well last night."

Wilson smiled at the fifty-ish, portly lady in front of him. House's favourite. His own favourite too. "Thanks, Jen," he said, before making his way down the wide hallway of Meadow View towards Room 63.

Wilson pushed open the door gently and slipped inside the room.

"Hey buddy."

He crouched down next to the wheelchair, which was facing the window and in the warmth of the sunlight. It faced the meadow outside. This was House's favourite spot in the whole building.

" 'immy."

Jimmy it was today then. That meant House had missed him. Usually, it was a slurred "W'lsn".

Wilson noticed that the blanket on House's lap had slipped slightly, and was trailing the floor. He pulled it up to settle it higher on House's lap, tucking it in firmly around him. House liked the feeling of the blanket around him. Whether it was because he wanted an additional layer to cover his right leg, or whether it was because of the sensation and comfort it gave him when it was firmly tucked around him, they never knew. But they did all they could to make him comfortable.

He stood up, and wheeled the chair to the table where they usually ate lunch together.

He opened the paper bags and lay out the food on the table. Immediately, House's eyes seemed to light up at the sight of the chocolate milkshake.

"Mmmm, 'immy."

"Yup. I got you fries and a milkshake today. I was running late but Amanda picked them up for me. I told you about her, right? She replaced Nora, who retired. Nora's taking care of her grandchildren now. She sent me pictures of her grandson. Doesn't that make you feel old? - "

Wilson unpacked all the food, and upon noticing that the fries were still slightly too thick and long, he frowned and began to cut them up into smaller pieces.

" - Well Amanda's pretty good, but I still miss Nora. I still remember how you used to annoy the hell out of her, and she wasn't afraid to give it right back to you even though she's about a foot shorter than you. I'm pretty sure you were kind of intimidated by her… She was pretty kickass... Okay, I can practically see you drooling at the fries – "

Wilson reached over and gently wiped House's chin and corner of his mouth with the paper napkin before picking up a small segment of a french fry.

" – so here you go. Pretty good, huh? Fresh and piping hot from the cafeteria."

"Mmmm. 'Uhmm."

"Yum, huh? Knew it. You're still a monster for french fries after all these years. Well I can't keep up with you anymore. Jen says my pants are getting tighter… The nerve of her huh. But you… you gotta eat more okay? I don't like how thin you're getting. Milkshake? I promise you I didn't sneak any Ensure into it."

Wilson lifted the cup, and placed the straw at House's lips. House managed to sip quite a bit, more than he used to be able to, and Wilson couldn't help but grin at the slight improvement in House's strength. "Getting stronger by the day, huh? Jen must be working you hard."

"Jennnnn…" House agreed, nodding his head very slightly. "Lis…"

"Cuddy came to see you yesterday huh?"

"Mmmmm. K…K…"

"Yeah, I know Cameron and Chase dropped by earlier in the morning. Cameron's…"

House choked slightly on a fry, and the conversation was largely forgotten as Wilson hurriedly clapped on House's chest, trying to calm him down. "You gotta eat slowly, House… I don't want to have to do the Heimlich on you… I know I'm a doctor but I suck at that, you know? You okay? I know… I'm sorry that piece was probably too big…"

Wilson saw the tear trail slowly down the side of House's face, and felt the same guilt and heartache that always resurfaced somehow even though it had been a long sixteen years. He knew it was from the exertion of choking – House was now that weak -, but some part of him always wondered whether House _knew_.

Was it embarrassment? Sadness? Awareness of what he had lost?

_What Wilson had caused him to lose?_

" 'Immyyyy," House slurred mournfully, looking at Wilson. He wriggled slightly in the chair, raising both his arms as much as he could, reaching out towards Wilson.

"It's okay, buddy. I'm okay." House was remarkably attuned to Wilson, something everyone considered miraculous. Wilson leaned over, out of his chair, and gathered House into his arms. He gently lifted House's head, and placed it on his shoulder. He kept his hand on the back of House's neck to keep his head from lolling about, and rubbed reassuring circles on House's back. "It's okay… I'm okay… Are you okay?"

"Mmmm… 'Immy kay… Howz kay…" His voice trailed off, becoming barely more than a whisper.

"We're all okay… We're good... You want to eat more?"

There was no reply, only the sound of heavy, even breathing. House had fallen asleep. Wilson shook his head and chuckled. Wilson disentangled himself from House, and wheeled him back over to the bed.

He easily lifted House back onto the bed. He slipped the memory foam pillows under House's right knee, and then covered House with the thick quilt that his mother had made.

House stirred, mumbling. "No go, 'immy… stay…"

"Sure thing. I'll stay. Just rest."

Wilson rubbed circles on House's arm as he watched House drift off to sleep. When he was out for the count, Wilson checked the IV bags on the stand before reconnecting them to House's central line.

There was three quarters of the fries and slightly more than half the milkshake left. He finished off his pasta salad as he watched House sleep. He cleaned up, and threw away the trash. He checked his watch. Fifteen more minutes before he had to go back.

He settled down in the recliner, and watched House sleep. When the time came for him to leave, he leaned over to place a chaste kiss on House's forehead.

"See you tomorrow."


	3. Chapter 3

_**2008**_

"_I don't want to be in pain, I don't want to be miserable. I don't want him to hate me." _

"_Well… you can't always get what you want."_

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><p>House opened his eyes, and the blur of colors around him gradually came into focus.<p>

Cuddy leapt up from her seat, grasping his hand tightly to her chest.

"Hey. _I'm here_. Blink if you can hear me."

She felt the weight of the world fall off her shoulders as he blinked. Slowly, but definitely. She felt tears of relief pool in her eyes.

The first thought he had was that he needed to go be with Wilson. "I gotta…" He was so weak; it was barely a whisper.

She hushed him. "No, shh. Don't talk. Just rest."

The fog in his head made everything blurry, and he couldn't remember what he needed to do. So he closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

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><p>The next time House opened his eyes, Wilson was standing in front of him. Based on the way Wilson looked, House <em>knew<em>. Amber had died, then. His eyes connected with Wilson's, but before he could even gather himself to say something, anything, Wilson gave a sort of bitter smile. His eyes were all red around the edges, and his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled, House noticed.

Then Wilson turned around and walked away.

House was vaguely reminded of a particular Christmas Eve. He stared at Wilson's back, a little voice telling him in his head that he'd really done it this time.

Never mind the fact that he'd risked his intellect, and even his life. Never mind the fact that he had pushed so hard his heart had given out for the third time in his life. Never mind the fact that he had pushed himself to the limits for Wilson and for Amber.

Yeah, he'd really outdone himself this time. This totally beat the whole Tritter debacle. This one took the cake.

He dropped his head back down onto the pillow and waited for sleep to come and take him away.

* * *

><p>Cuddy was about to walk into the room when she stopped at the door. House was in the bed, staring at the television. But she could tell he wasn't really watching it. Her heart tightened as she looked at him with a critical eye. There was a slight air of defeat around him. He looked like he'd aged ten years in the past week.<p>

She knew for sure that Wilson hadn't come see him once after the night Amber died. She had been awake, but had pretended to be curled up and sleeping in the chair when Wilson came in. She had expected them to talk. But there were only the quiet footsteps of Wilson walking away.

She had heard the faint plop as House dropped his head back onto the pillows. It was a while before she had dared to open her eyes. When she did, she saw the single tear track leading down from the corner of House's eye.

She had adjusted her position slightly, bringing her arms and head to rest on the bed. Then slowly, subtly, she had reached over to cover his left hand with her own, disguising it as unconscious movement in her sleep. He hadn't shirked away, nor had he acknowledged her. She was fine with that. She expected that reaction. He would have seen through her poorly disguised attempt at comforting him anyway.

It was when he squeezed back, and held on tightly as he drifted off to sleep that she realized how upset he must have been, to allow her to comfort him.

They never spoke of that moment again.

She slipped into the room. "Hey."

He glanced at her briefly, before turning his head back to the television.

"How are you feeling?"

He shrugged.

He'd been like that the whole time in the hospital. For once, he wasn't wreaking havoc as a patient and pissing off all the nurses. He was passive and subdued. Sure, head injuries tended to do that to you. But Cuddy was sure it wasn't entirely because of his head injury.

"Maybe we can discharge you in a day or two," she said hopefully, trying to spark some reaction from him. She wanted desperately for him to insist on being discharged AMA, or tell her how her nurses aren't doing their job, or simply make a fuss and insist on cable television in his room.

Nothing.

"Okay."

His voice was flat. She could tell his walls were raised so high right now they were probably thicker and taller than the Great Wall of China. He had fortified himself, keeping his emotions in a cocoon, and there was a huge "Keep Out" sign on display for all who dared to even _think_ about trying to pry.

She sat down for a while, looking through her Blackberry. In the background, the monotonous tone of the weatherman predicting the weather for the next week droned on. House stared determinedly at the small television.

"Her funeral's later today," he mumbled.

"Yeah."

"You're going. And so is the team."

"Yeah."

A pregnant pause. Cuddy was apprehensive to say more, not knowing where the conversation was leading. Push, and he might shut her out forever.

It came so softly she almost thought she didn't hear it.

"Don't think Wilson wants me there anyway."

"House…"

He muted the television and turned away from her. "I'm tired."

"House… I - "

"I'm going to rest now."

He turned away from her and closed his eyes, effectively ending the conversation. If it could even be considered a conversation.

* * *

><p>Chase slinked into the hospital room, and sunk into the recliner. House looked at his former fellow. The one person he trusted to do the DBS, and who had helped him in his quest for the answer.<p>

"Cuddy screwed you over for doing the DBS?"

"Uh… yeah, pretty much."

House was silent for a while. Saying thank you was never a forte of his.

"Thanks."

Chase shrugged. "You're welcome. You would have found someone else to do it for you anyway... You wouldn't have stopped till you got the answer."

"So what punishment have you been damned with?"

"Clinic hours. Double. Next two months."

House snorted. "Typical Cuddy."

Another silence fell over the two doctors. Not an uncomfortable one, though. Chase had been around House for too long for it to be so. He used to be under House's mentorship, but now… they were more like _equals_.

It was a while before Chase could broach the question that had been lingering on his mind all this while.

"Do you regret trying so hard to find your answer?"

House stared out the window. He was silent for so long that Chase thought it was a sign that the conversation was over, and it was time for him to leave. He stood up, but House's answer came just as he was about to step out of the room.

"No." House's voice was soft, like the whisper of the wind. "But coming back… a little."

Chase stood there for a moment, contemplating House's words. He understood the implication behind the statement, and was about to offer words of… what words could be used to comfort someone in this situation, especially if it was House? There were no reassuring words to be offered. Chase knew that. Words didn't make anything better. They didn't change the cold, hard truth that was reality.

He opened his mouth, about to say something... to apologise, perhaps? Or maybe just to -

"Bye Chase."

And that was that.

* * *

><p>"No driving for the next few weeks. Definitely no alcohol. No consults, no work at all. Plenty of rest." Cuddy stood in front of House's bed, looking through his chart. "Your team will take turns coming to check on you once a day. I'll give you an additional week off, after which your team will take turns giving you lifts to work."<p>

He nodded his head, eyes falling briefly onto the floor before he raised them to look out the window.

Usually, she would be lecturing him, and he would be trying to evade her concern, snarking back or releasing his formidable wit on her. But this time, she just didn't have the heart to. Nor did he have the strength or will to rebel against her.

He was seated there on the bed, legs hanging slightly off the ground. He was gripping the hospital-standard forearm crutch he would be using for the next few weeks tightly. His balance was still a bit off. She had passed him the cane, and he had accepted it with no remark of how it was "so not cool".

He really looked like a small, lost child.

Of course he was lost. All his hospital stays had usually ended up with Wilson bringing him home, and they would usually have an argument about whether or not House should sit in the wheelchair as per protocol.

But this time, one particular oncologist with floppy brown hair was missing. And Cuddy was here to bring him home instead. She had cleared her schedule just for this.

Cuddy hesitated. Then she went to sit next to him on the bed. She could feel him shirk away slightly. But somehow she sensed it wasn't because she was invading into his personal space, nor was it because he was uncomfortable.

Going with her instinct, she placed her hand gently on his forearm. "House…"

"I'm fine."

"He'll be back. Just give him some time."

House didn't even know what to say to that.

She could sense him tense slightly. The silence hung in the air, oppressive and she couldn't help but feel that a sense of defeat and resignation wafted off him.

He finally made himself say it.

"You don't know that."

Cuddy bit her lip. "He just needs some time to get over his grief. He's asked for two months off…"

House stared at his crutch. He hated the hospital crutches. He wanted his cane back. But he can still see his cane flying through the air as the world around him spun and spun and didn't seem like it was going to stop soon.

Cuddy sensed that he wasn't altogether there with her anymore when he closed his eyes, and she squeezed his arm gently. "House?" He opened his eyes, but didn't turn to look at her. "You know I'm here for you. If you need anything… I'm here."

She knew it wasn't enough, but it was all she could do.

House nearly died too. She hadn't been particularly close to Amber, but the whole bus crash saga had awakened in her some sort of _feeling_ towards House. He'd fractured his skull, had a heart attack, seized and had been in a coma, all in the span of three days. It had definitely been the three worst days of her life.

House was her friend. So was Wilson. Watching them ride out the rollercoaster that was the past three weeks had been absolutely terrifying.

"You did your best."

"Wasn't enough."

"You nearly died, House. You gave Wilson a chance to say goodbye."

"Wasn't enough."

_It was my fault anyway._

Then he seemed to clam up, and he drew himself up. Cuddy could almost see him push his feelings away, burying them deep down somewhere in that place where no one could get to them. She knew what had just transpired between them had been extremely personal and emotional, especially for him. Only Wilson really got to see this side of House.

It was almost fascinating to watch House draw up his walls and put on his facade. She could almost hear the 'click' as they snapped into place.

* * *

><p>It was Kutner who approached her a few days later.<p>

"I think House is having absence seizures." Upon seeing Cuddy's eyes widen in worry, he rushed to clarify himself. "Very short ones. For about six, seven seconds each time." He hesitated, not knowing whether or not he should voice his particular concern. Heck it. "Uh… And I don't think he's been sleeping very well."

"He told you…?"

"Um, this is House we're talking about right? I just thought… he's been drinking a lot of coffee, and looks – for lack of a better word - _hungover_…"

Cuddy was about to interject angrily when Kutner continued, "But he hasn't been drinking… I uh, took the liberty of removing all the alcohol from the house."

Cuddy surveyed the young man standing in front of her, slightly surprised at his observation skills and willingness to take the initiative. She could see why House had chosen to hire him despite his specialty of sports medicine now. Something told her that Kutner was far more involved in checking on House than the other fellows. She could only imagine House's reaction to Kutner's actions, and she kind of admired Kutner for _daring_ to actually throw out all the alcohol.

"You _threw out_ the alcohol?"

"I think House would fire me if I did that. I told him I'm… _safekeeping_ them till you clear him."

She smiled slightly before sighing and putting her pen down and closing her laptop. The week had passed so quickly, thanks to the upcoming Pediatrics benefit that had her working till the wee hours of the night. She had only managed to visit House twice; each time, it had been at night and he had retreated into his bedroom after a while, saying he was tired.

Part of her suspected that he was afraid to open up to her again. Or that he didn't really know how to face her after their conversation the morning he was discharged.

"I'll check on him tonight. Thanks, Dr Kutner."

* * *

><p><em>He's on the bus again. In front of him is the answer.<em>

This is a dream. This is why he hasn't been sleeping.

Wake up, House. This is not real.

_Something tells him that he needs to find the answer, fast. He needs to push himself to find the answer. He knows the answer. It is somewhere in his mind._

_And suddenly, the world falls apart. It is Amber, in front of him, her hair flying around her face, backlit by the approaching lights. It's like a halo. _

_Then the world spins and he feels himself holding on desperately to something. A chair? He can feel the bus roll over and over, and it doesn't seem to want to stop anytime soon. There is no gravity. There is the tinkle of breaking glass, the grating sound of metal crushing metal, the screams of hapless passengers..._

_He spots Amber's hands in front of hers, and he reaches out. So close. So damn close. Their fingers touch, and he clasps her hand, and despite the fact that he's still being flung about, he almost sighs in relief. He's got her. He is protecting Wilson's girlfriend, Wilson's loved one. Wilson loves her. He needs to catch her, for Wilson. _

_Then her hand slips out of his, and his heart stops. He lets go, and he too, flies through the air. _

_Then everything just blissfully stops. _

"House? House. Wake up." Cuddy shook his shoulder, trying to rouse him. He was shifting about on the couch, mumbling, limbs twitching and jerking. "Wake up, House. You're having a nightmare."

He jerked awake, eyes filled with panic and distress before he slowly took in his surroundings and relaxed into the couch. He brought his right hand up to wearily rub his eyes, but Cuddy couldn't un-see the sheer panic that had been reflected in his eyes. She could hazard a guess at what the dream was about.

"What are you doing here."

"Just checking on you. Everything okay?"

"Other than the fact that my team is trespassing every single day, everything's peachy."

"Brought you some food. Come on, I bet you haven't eaten."

"Is it one of your health food things? Vegetarian with no meat and all that organic rubbish? Because there's no way I'm going to eat any of that."

He sounded rather normal, but Cuddy could tell he still wasn't himself. He was good at putting up the false front though.

"They're good for you, you know. And no, I know you better than that… I picked up some Chinese."

"Hmmph."

"You're welcome," she replied dryly.

As expected, he didn't react well when she passed him the additional meds. But he took them anyway. Too willingly, in fact. Cuddy couldn't help but feel uneasy at how compliant he was compared to his usual standards.

"Kutner says you haven't been sleeping well."

The truth is, he hadn't been sleeping much at all. The nightmares of the crash still plagued him. Perhaps two, three hour naps each time.

"I've never been one for much sleep," he shrugged. In a desperate bid to change the subject, he went on."And Kutner's nose is too big for his own good. Taub's is still bigger and uglier but Kutner likes to poke his everywhere."

"He's concerned for you."

"Yeah well, being concerned for me doesn't equate to confiscating all my alcohol."

"I told you no drinking anyway. _You have a head injury_."

"I bet he's pilfering them. If I find anything missing, I'm going to make him buy me the best bourbon I spot in the store. And do all my clinic hours."

She watched him take the pills, and then followed him into the bedroom.

"You want to tuck me in?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Go to sleep."

As he sat in bed, waiting for the meds to take effect, she sat at the foot of his bed. He had this overwhelming urge to tell her how he was terrified that Wilson wasn't coming back. Or that he didn't want to sleep because of the nightmares, and was secretly glad that she had given him the zolpidem.

Drowsiness slowly crept up on him, and before he knew it, the words were coming out of his mouth.

"I nearly died too, you know…?"

Cuddy's breath caught in her throat, and she closed her eyes.

"Amber made a mistake getting me to come back…" he mumbled, all defenses and ability to hide anything gone under the influence of drugs and sheer exhaustion from the lack of sleep. "Wasn't enough… It's always never enough…"

"House…"

"Wilson hates me."

Then he closed his eyes, and escaped from the harsh reality that was his world in the aftermath of the bus crash.


	4. Chapter 4

_**2008**_

When House came back to work three weeks after being discharged, Wilson's office was still dark. Wilson was still away. Nothing seemed different – he seemed like he always was after nearly dying. The same House.

Cuddy wondered how sad it was that he had nearly died twice before – enough times for them to be able to compare his behaviour now and from before, after the shooting and after electrocuting himself.

They expected House to be subdued, or quieter… Or go in the total opposite direction and make all their lives miserable._ Any_ change would have been an appropriate manifestation of the multitude of feelings that he must have been having.

What they didn't expect was for him to be the_ same_. Other than the fact that he now relied on a forearm crutch, due to slight balance and coordination problems, and had more frequent migraines, he was still the same House. Eating in the rooms of coma patients, banging his cane on tables, avoiding clinic duty, and insulting them like there was no tomorrow. Or so the new team thought.

The old team, and Cuddy, however, could see that things were not quite right. House was just incredibly good at making everything seem fine. There was something off about him, but they couldn't tell what it was. Any attempts to talk to him about it were all rebuffed with a roll of the eyes and his signature deflections. He didn't even yell at them.

House didn't go onto the balcony much anymore. Chase and Cameron took to asking House to eat lunch with them. Most of the time, he said he didn't want to "interrupt your lovey-dovey sessions". But he said yes, sometimes, when it got too hard to bear. Cuddy lunched with him too, occasionally even paying for his lunch.

Every action has a consequence. On the physical body. More so on the emotional and psychological aspects. Right?

But House seemed to be coping perfectly fine.

* * *

><p>Wilson found himself in Philadelphia, staying with his parents. It was a natural reaction.<p>

He grew up in a warm and loving family where his parents showered care and love on him. The only blemish in their family was the disappearance of Danny. Wilson never forgave himself for that, but his parents did. They always forgave. That was the extent of their love.

So it was natural for him to head back home, to where they were, to seek comfort, like a child who had been frightened or hurt.

As he took time off for himself, to grieve for his loss and to simply recuperate, he found himself not missing House.

He'd been around House for so long. He'd never been away from House for more than a week at a time; it became so after the infarction, when it became clear that he was House's lifeline. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be away from House.

Not that he wanted to think about House at the moment. He didn't want to think about House at all. But House kept coming back into his thoughts. He didn't actually speak to House before leaving. After the funeral was over, he'd packed up, and returned to his parents' home. House was still in the hospital.

He still cried at night, sometimes, when he thought of how it felt to have Amber in his embrace in bed. Or when he came across her favourite flowers. All her belongings were still in her apartment, untouched. But he had brought along her favourite t-shirt – he swore it still had her scent on it. And he took it out at night, sometimes, when it got too hard.

He expected House to call him, or look for him. He didn't know why. Maybe he wanted an apology? But then again, he was pretty sure he didn't want to speak to House.

He could leave Princeton, and never look back. He could leave all the painful memories behind. The very fact that House occupied his thoughts even when he didn't want him to, was a very sign that House had overtaken his life. And he was a toxic influence. Like poison.

As Wilson spent the days grieving, yet trying to forget, he found himself calculating the value of their friendship. The good and the bad. But more often than not, the bad memories would rise to the surface.

And then he realised that all he'd been doing was giving. And House just kept taking and taking and taking. And what kind of friendship was that?

As his bereavement leave neared its end, and Wilson faced the prospect of returning to Princeton (and his life with House), he decided that it was time to stop giving. And that he could, perhaps, go on with life without House. But still, he held off on making a decision.

When time came for him to really return to PPTH, he could feel the weight of it all settling upon him, and he couldn't breathe. He just couldn't return to whatever he had with House. How could he resume a friendship with someone who had killed his girlfriend, who constantly took but never gave?

So he made up his mind for real that it was time to get the hell out of Princeton and away from House.

* * *

><p>When Wilson finally managed to step into PPTH, he saw House from afar. He saw the forearm crutch. But all he felt was grief, for what had happened, and a desire to leave. Whatever concern he would have felt for House, was just overwhelmed by his own sense of loss.<p>

He was in his office, settling all his administrative matters in preparation for his departure, when Cuddy entered.

"Wilson… What is this?" She placed his resignation letter on his desk as she sat down.

"Massachusetts General offered me a position as Assistant Head of Oncology."

"Wilson…"

"It's a great offer. I'll have more time for my patients."

"Don't do this. I know it's not – "

"Don't talk to me about him."

"You haven't even asked about him."

"I… don't want to know," he shrugged. He really didn't. It seemed unfair to him, somehow. That House should survive, but not Amber. Who was it that decided such stuff anyway?

"He's having balance and coordination problems. And still has absence seizures. He misses – "

"No, don't say it."

"_He's your best friend_."

"Stop, Cuddy. Stop. Just… I don't want to talk about him."

"He nearly died too, Wilson," Cuddy said sharply. The memory of giving House mouth-to-mouth was still etched in her mind. It had been terrifying. "He gave all he had. He went into cardiac arrest, and did the deep brain stimulation despite his skull fracture!"

"He… he wouldn't have had to do that if she wasn't on the bus." But even that sounded feeble to him.

"The two of you need to talk about this. You can't just run away from the problem."

"I am not running away, Cuddy," Wilson put down his things, and for the first time in the whole conversation, really looked at her in the eye. "I've just had enough. I'm not going to keep giving anymore. I could have been the one on the bus, you know that? I've had enough. It's time for me to leave. This friendship… I don't even know if it's a friendship if I'm the one who keeps giving. And enabling."

There was a long silence in the room. There wasn't even a peep of noise from House's office, from which there would be the usual thunk of the tennis ball or cane, or voices engaged in a heated differential. It was just... silent.

"I'm not accepting this letter of resignation," she said, desperate. "You…"

He managed a half-smile at her. It was more like a grimace. "I'm leaving anyway."

There was the obligatory farewell party. It wasn't really a party since the whole hospital knew that Wilson was still grieving, and of course, what the real reason behind his leaving was.

Wilson was sure that he had done his very best in PPTH as a doctor. A fellow department head came up to him and clapped him on the back, "You've left behind some pretty big shoes to fill." He was leaving behind a great legacy – the Oncology Department of PPTH was one of the best in the world, and the remission rate of his patients was one of the highest in the country. He had done his best.

Cuddy came, as did House's team members. They went up to him, and exchanged the obligatory niceties. But Wilson didn't miss the sullen and rather hostile undertones in some of their words. But Cuddy must have talked to them, for there were no attempts to get him to reconcile with House, or to change his mind.

House himself, was not present. Not that Wilson expected him to be.

When Wilson went up to his office to remove all his stuff, he found House sitting on his couch. His head was on his cane, and he was huddled over as he thumped his cane on the floor. Like a little boy, thought Wilson. But that didn't matter.

And so, the final thing he left behind in Princeton, were the words that came out of his mouth just before he walked out on House. He felt like he'd never said words that were more true.

_"I don't blame you for Amber's death. As much as I've tried to find a way to, I couldn't. But we're not okay. I didn't want to tell you the truth. I'm tired of protecting you and enabling you. We're not friends anymore, House. I don't think we ever were."_

He packed up, and left the very next day.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson left on a Friday, so the next time House came back to the hospital, it was a Monday. They expected him to come in hung over and in a mess. They steeled themselves for the worst insults and harshest criticisms.

But House was, for lack of a better word, _fine_.

The first few days were unpleasant. It would slip their minds sometimes – whenever there was a possibility that it was cancer, someone would inadvertently suggest a consult from Wilson. Once, even House made that same mistake. Each time, House would freeze for just a fraction of a second. The team would hold their breaths, waiting for some sort of reaction.

But each time, he would blink, gathering himself together, as though pulling in the frayed ends of himself that threatened to escape from his control, and continue on.

Then everything would go on like normal. The team would exhale, exchange looks, and thank the gods that they didn't stir up any trouble for themselves.

Then one week melted into two.

They never knew what Wilson said to House before he left, but judging from the utter lack of communication, and from how, according to Cuddy, Wilson refused to talk about, or listen to anything about House, they got the idea.

The days took on a routine.

House would come in on time. He accepted cases without arguing. The differential would be like any other. He would do his clinic duty voluntarily without Cuddy drag him off to do it. He stayed there for the full amount of time, without whining or causing problems. He didn't try to escape early. He answered pages, didn't insult idiotic patients, didn't harass other doctors or nurses, and didn't skive off work. Interaction with his team was limited to differentials and discussions about the patient. He dedicated all of his time to the cases – no more playing of pranks, no more harassing nurses or technicians, no more interfering in the private lives of his teams. Instead of roaming the halls of the hospital wreaking havoc, he kept to himself in his office, not coming out unless it was absolutely necessary.

Diagnoses that usually came with Wilson were gone, since the man who provided the said epiphanies wasn't around anymore.

The cure rate of the Diagnostics Department dropped slightly. It was still phenomenally high for the national average, but it was a career-low for House. Still, House seemed okay with that. The team was okay with that, since it was still the highest in the country.

So each day, House would fulfill his duties as the Head of the Diagnostics Department. And at the end of the day, he would go home, drink enough scotch or bourbon or whisky to induce a nice alcohol buzz, warmth and sleepiness. Then he would take a bath, brush his teeth, and stare at the TV for a while before crawling into bed and sleeping dreamless sleep.

And it would start all over again with the dawn of a new day.

* * *

><p>Cuddy stood outside Exam Room 1, and took a deep breath.<p>

Two weeks became three, and soon, it had been a month since Wilson left. House was still doggedly persisting in being the perfect doctor that he never was, and he showed no signs of cracking.

On the record, House was with a patient. But for some reason, she found herself hoping that that wasn't what he was doing. In fact, she was praying that he was watching a soap, or playing one of his PSP games.

She knocked on the door, and then pushed it open slowly.

Lo and behold, House was with a patient. An obviously worried mother, who was carrying a wailing baby, watched as House examined a small girl's throat. Cuddy winced at the incredibly powerful lungs of the infant, who was oblivious to the frantic hushing of his mother.

House didn't look at her. He didn't even seem fazed at the ear-splitting cries of distress that reverberated in the small exam room.

He turned to the young mother, raising his voice slightly but calmly so that he could be heart over the din. "The tests showed that it's strep throat. I'll prescribe you some antibiotics."

"Is it contagious?"

"The symptoms take a few days to show, so she might have passed it on. Just come back if anyone else falls ill."

He limped over to the counter, and leaned over as he scribbled on his prescription pad. He ripped it off, and handed it over to the frazzled young mother.

She took it, and as she walked past Cuddy towards the door, she turned around and said earnestly, "Thank you, Dr House. You've been a great help."

Cuddy swallowed hard.

He didn't reply as he looked down at the charts in his hand, already preparing for the next patient.

"House…" Cuddy stepped forward from the corner she had been standing in. There was no annoyance or exasperation in her voice. There hadn't been any, for the past week. At least, not any directed towards House.

"I'm doing my clinic duty."

Before she could summon up some sort of adequate response, he left the room and walked towards the reception desk. She followed him out, still trying to figure out what to say. He picked up the next patient file, and turned to the crowd of sick people in the waiting area.

"Eli Penton," he announced. Every bit the good doctor.

An old man stood up slowly, and followed House into the exam room. Cuddy could only watch as House disappeared behind the door.

Nurse Brenda came up to stand next to her.

"House," she whispered urgently, "has not insulted me once at all today. And he's treated six STIs and three colds without complaining." She paused, before continuing, "Is he okay?"

Nurse Brenda wasn't the only one who noticed the change. It was obvious to all the staff in the hospital that the sudden change in Dr Gregory House came immediately after the departure of a Dr James Wilson.

But whatever it was, for most of them, it was a good change. For once, Human Resources wasn't struggling to handle complaints against House. The hospital lawyers weren't working their asses off to settle potential lawsuits. The clinic was functioning well with House doing more hours than necessary.

Other than the fact that they had just lost one of the best oncologists in the country, PPTH seemed to be doing better.

* * *

><p>He wondered how he could go on.<p>

There was supposed to be a Wilson-shaped hole in his life, right? He half-expected himself to fall to pieces without Wilson in his life. He never realized just how much time he spent with Wilson – lunches, pranks, barging into his office, conversations at the balcony.

But he found that, somehow, he _could_ go on.

That's what he always managed to do, right? He dealt with things, and moved on. Nothing could get him down. He was House. He wasn't like anyone else. Everyone knew he was impenetrable, strong, and not like everyone else.

Cuddy, Chase and Cameron had taken to popping into his office for _visits_. He vaguely realised that he was supposed to be annoyed or something, but he oddly didn't feel anything. And so he didn't do anything to stop them.

Three weeks went by. He felt as though he was bursting at the seams, yet he felt strangely empty. He wondered if they could tell.

Then one Friday, he noticed that Jacobs from Neurology had taken over Wilson's office. He went home that day, emptied an entire bottle of bourbon on an empty stomach, and fell asleep on the floor. He woke up on Saturday afternoon, spent quality time with the toilet, and went to bed. He lay on his side in bed, and cradled his phone in his hands.

For the first time in three weeks, he dialed Wilson's number.

It barely rang twice before it was cut off.

House very slowly put the phone back on bedside table. He stared at his wall for a long time, before he finally fell asleep.

Monday came, and for once, House didn't come in to work earlier than usual. In fact, he didn't turn up at all. Immediately, their worst fear was that he'd done something stupid. After all, he had seen Jacobs move into Wilson's office.

But then her phone rang, and it was him.

"Not coming in today." His voice was oddly matter-of-fact. "Sick."

He didn't come in on Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, then Friday. He stopped calling in on Wednesday.

* * *

><p>Cuddy stood outside House's apartment together with Chase on Friday evening. She'd only brought Chase along because he'd insisted.<p>

After a minute or so, Chase finally managed to get the door open.

They found House in the bedroom, lying spread-eagled on his bed. His eyes were open, and he was staring at the ceiling. He had a grey blanket folded neatly on his chest, and he fingered the frayed edges of it.

Chase slipped out of the room quietly.

"House?" Cuddy ventured.

"Here." He didn't look away from the ceiling. "Sup."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sick."

Chase re-entered the room, and whispered into Cuddy's ear. "There are three empty bottles of whisky and bourbon in the living room. His cupboards are empty… But he's been ordering take-out."

Cuddy cleared her throat, and then turned to House. "Are you drunk?"

"Haven't been for two days."

She sat down on the bed next to him, and looked at him closely. Sure enough, his eyes weren't glazed over.

"You haven't come into work for a week."

He didn't look away from the ceiling, nor move an inch. "Okay."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm great." He blinked. "Just peachy."

"House... What are you doing?"

"Lying on my bed."

"No, what are you doing, really?" she asked gently. She wasn't just referring to what he was doing at the moment, but what he was going to do, or had been doing for the past three weeks.

"Trying to sleep."

"How long have you been lying here?"

He shrugged.

"Have you gotten up at all?"

"Sure."

Chase and Cuddy exchanged worried glances. House still hadn't moved an inch, and was still staring at the ceiling as he replied them in that frighteningly empty voice. He was supposed to chase them out, or yell at them, or _something_.

"House…"

"I'm okay."

"You're depressed."

He blinked.

He wondered if he _was_ depressed. Was he supposed to be plagued by some sort of deep sadness that wouldn't go away? Or feel like killing himself? Or some sort of despair? Because currently, he didn't feel anything.

"I'm not depressed," he replied truthfully.

Chase came to stand beside Cuddy, joining in the conversation. "Then what are you feeling?"

House shrugged.

"You've got to be feeling something."

He blinked at the ceiling again, trying to summon up a word to describe his total lack of emotion.

"I feel… nothing."

"Nothing?"

He shrugged.

Cuddy reached out to touch his arm. And he let her. Until he realized that her touch was invoking some sort of feeling in him. Slowly, he became aware of a burning feeling in his eyes, and a hollow pit in his stomach. Her touch seemed to burn through his very skin.

He curled up abruptly, and turned away from them. He shook out the blanket – he would never tell them that this was the one Wilson always used when he slept over – and wrapped himself in it.

He scrabbled desperately for the feelings and emotions that had started to leak out from his stronghold on them, but they seemed determine to escape from him after her touch had sprung the release button on them. It was so much easier to feel nothing, than to feel the myriad of feelings flashing by in him right now. He felt his heart ache, and speed up dreadfully at all the negative feelings that welled up in him.

"I'm going to sleep now."

He hoped they couldn't hear the tremble in his voice.

The feelings that weren't supposed to exist were there, right there, and they were threatening to take hold of him and never let him go.

He'd never felt this way, not for anyone else. No one could invoke such strong feelings in him. No one ever made him feel like crying, or so filled with regret that he wished he actually had not woken from the coma, or that he'd died in the bus crash. Gregory House never regretted his actions, or wished that past events could have happened differently. _Never_. He believed that whatever happened, happened. That was that. Nothing could change the past. So he didn't believe in regret, or crying over spilt milk. Until now. And it frightened him. He had never felt so… _wrong_ in his life. He felt it in his very bones, in every single molecule of his body, that he was wrong.

He closed his eyes, and refused to turn over. He was so dangerously close to losing control that he didn't know if he could hold it in if he looked into their eyes. He wasn't sure if he could take the pity, or the care and concern.

_You're like a poison, House. _

All he could think of was how he was wrong. How he was at fault. He killed Amber. It was his fault, and he was suffering for it now. Wilson was right. He was a poison, a toxic chemical, harmful to everyone around him. He tried his best to save Amber, but it wasn't enough. He couldn't even blame Wilson for leaving.

It scared him like hell that he didn't know if he could be right anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

**_2024_**

"Rach," Jake's voice greeted me as I answered my cell. My heart did that little skip-a-beat. It was becoming annoying – it happened every single time I talked to Jake. "Hey, you're coming over later right?"

He meant Meadowview. I glanced down at the worksheet I was trying to finish up. Just two questions left. "Yeah, what's up? I'm just finishing up some homework."

"Do you have a portable keyboard? Greg isn't feeling so well today, and we were wondering if you could play in his room instead after the usual performance today."

"Sure," I answered. "Everything okay?"

"According to Jen, he's been running a low-grade fever since last night. Hopefully it's just a minor bug. But in case it's contagious, we're trying to minimize contact with the other residents." Jake sighed. "Mom's pretty stressed about it. We're hoping it's not pneumonia."

I understood why. Over the weeks, I'd come to learn that Greg was one of the home's first residents. He'd been there for over a decade. Everyone was pretty attached to him – it was a running joke that his gorgeous blue eyes were a babe magnet.

"I'll be over in half an hour," I promised. "Tell your mom not to worry too much."

* * *

><p>Nurses Jen and Devin were standing outside Greg's room, in the middle of a discussion when I approached them after the music session out in the main hall for the rest of the residents.<p>

"Where is the picture-book?" Jen demanded, "I thought we agreed not to wash it for the time being while he's away?"

Devin whispered back urgently. "It somehow ended up in the wash – "

"Go get it back _now_. Use a hairdryer, heat it, whatever works. All he wants is some comfort!" Jen hissed. "Dr Wilson is coming back in half a day and – oh, hi Rachel," Jen cut herself off as she spotted me standing there with my portable keyboard. "Am I glad to see you. Give me a minute." She turned back to Nurse Devin, who was quite obviously cowering under the formidable stare from the senior nurse. "Go get it _now."_

I offered a slight smile to Nurse Devin, trying to convey my sympathies. He shrugged, smiled back, and scampered off to follow his superior's orders.

"Greg isn't having a great day," Jen grimaced. "It doesn't help that it's his birthday two days from now. We've been hyping things up for him – we were going to have a little party… He's pretty disappointed. We just hope it's a passing bug and not something serious."

It was my first time in Greg's room. First time seeing him in bed. When he was in the wheelchair and with the rest of the residents listening to the piano, or when he was interacting with me during our one-on-one sessions, he didn't seem all that sickly. But lying in the hospital-standard bed, with IVs and machines around him, he looked small and weak.

"Hi Greg," I said softly as I sat down on the edge of his bed. "I heard you're not feeling so good." I patted his left knee. "Want some Stones today?"

"Ra-ach," Greg turned to look at me, peering out of his good eye. " 'Ano."

"Yup, piano," I picked his hand up, and placed it on the keyboard. Holding one of his fingers, I helped him press a few keys. That usually cheered him up quite a bit. "I learnt a new piece this week. Wanna hear it?"

Instead of a nod, though, Greg turned his head away from me. I could feel the tension in his hand – he was trying to pull away from me. " 'immy," his lips curled downwards in a sad frown, and he blinked. "Want." He opened and closed his right hand slowly, making a grabbing gesture. " 'immy," he repeated, "come."

Jen sighed and crouched down next to Greg. "I know you're looking for Jimmy, Greg. But he's coming back from the conference tonight, remember? He promised he would come see you immediately."

Tears started to form in Greg's eyes. "'Immy..." He stared at Jen. "Want."

"Greg…" Jen thumbed away the tears that trickled down Greg's cheeks. He shifted his gaze away from her, and looked at me instead. "Ra-ach," he fixed those beautiful blue eyes on me, and I felt my heart clench at his request. " 'immy come… want."

"I…" I didn't know quite how to respond. All I did was play the piano for Greg every week. How the hell _was_ I supposed to respond?

Luckily, Jen jumped in. "I know you miss him, Greg. Devin's looking for the picture book now, okay?"

"Want," Greg sniffled, shifting about in bed, still making his grabbing gestures. "Howz…'immy."

"Okay," Jen breathed. She got up, and sat down on the bed, rubbing her hands up and down his forearm. "Let's listen to Rachel first, okay? I promise Jimmy will come back soon."

I could feel the unnatural warmth radiate off of Greg's body, a result of the fever. Jen nodded at me, and I started playing the keyboard. Today wasn't a day for the Stones, I decided. Something more soothing, perhaps to calm Greg, was in order. But somehow, the music that flowed out of me was sad too – like I sympathized with him. I was just about to change tempo – some cheery upbeat would help, right? – I noticed that Greg had calmed down somewhat. Though he continued to sniffle and whisper as Jen sponged him with cool water, he was quieter and less restless. He kept asking for " 'immy" – _Timmy? Jimmy?_ – and despite his obvious lack of energy, kept forcing his drooping eyelids to stay open.

Fifteen minutes later and Greg was becoming restless again. Luckily, at that moment, Devin rushed in with what seemed like one of those small cloth books with clear holders that you could insert pictures into – for babies to familiarize themselves with their family members.

Jen visibly sighed in relief, and practically snatched it from Devin. She opened it, and showed Greg the pictures inside. Greg settled down almost immediately, and the slight crook of his lips that I knew was his version of a smile appeared. " 'immy," he sounded happier already. "Ho-owz… Wil-shun."

Jen placed the book next to House's head, and moved his hand so that it was touching the book.

In less than five minutes, Greg was asleep.

"Thanks, Rachel," Jen sighed as she stood up and began putting things away. "It might not seem like it, but you were a great help. He gets much more antsy than this when this usually happens."

"I hope you don't mind me asking," I slid my keyboard back into its case and zipped it up. "But who is this person?"

A sad smile tinged with a kind of wonder and pensiveness. "His best friend," Jen said as she gestured towards the book. She shifted it slightly to flip it open. "They've been best friends for decades. They still are."

And staring right up at me, was a photo of Uncle James and Greg.

* * *

><p><strong><em>2008<em>**

It took another two weeks before House hauled himself out of his apartment.

_Suck it up, Greg. Be a man. _

How was this time any different from the rest anyway? He always got by on his own. He would be fine.

Just give it more time, and things would get back to normal again. That was what he told himself as he found himself asking for anti-depressants from Chase. He didn't know why exactly he asked Chase, but he knew it was for the same reason he chose to ask Chase out to bowl with him when Wilson wasn't free to.

* * *

><p>To his credit, Chase didn't pry further when House asked for the anti-depressants. He did, however, try to ask House to visit a trauma counselor. He knew that House wasn't infallible.<p>

"House," Chase had said as he scribbled on the prescription pad, "You should – "

"No."

It figured. House could read minds.

Desperate, Chase had threatened, "I won't give you the anti-depressants then."

"I can go get them from someone else."

"Can you? Will you?"

"…"

"House…"

"Please." It had been the closest Chase had ever seen House come to begging, and he hated it. "Just give them to me."

Not wanting to cut off what tenuous relationship House now had with just him – just him, and no one else - Chase had relented. He shouldn't have, but things were never normal when it came to House… right? But he hadn't wanted House to lose any form of support or relationship he even remotely had anymore.

But when the shit hit the fan, however, Chase knew it would be _bad_.

But for now, things were fine.

So, things went back to normal. At least, some sort of normal. The team stopped treading so carefully around him, and Cameron stopped making those _I-was-just-passing-by_ visits of hers.

* * *

><p>Chase walked into the cafeteria, immediately spotting the lone figure sitting at the table in the most remote corner.<p>

House was still taking the anti-depressants, which was surprising. How low had he fallen, Chase realised, that he had actually resorted to anti-depressants? House had never trusted anti-depressants and psych meds. Chase had also begun prescribing the Vicodin a few weeks later after he noticed that House was in the beginnings of withdrawal. He was also still using the forearm crutch, his balance and coordination having never recovered fully.

In the past two months, House had gradually surrounded himself in barbed wire, building walls and keeping everyone at bay. No one knew what was going on in his life outside work anymore – questions about non-work related matters were deflected, even snarled away. Even Cuddy couldn't get through. He was like an trapped, injured dog, snarling and barking and biting and keeping everyone away.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as House answered a phone call and immediately got up, limping out of the canteen. He cocked his head as he observed House – he'd lost more weight, and was limping more heavily.

Chase filed it away in his head for future reference. He would probably have to ask House whether the pain was getting worse soon.

He was in the middle of his lunch with Cameron when Cuddy came bustling into the cafeteria. Spotting them, she strided towards them.

"Have you seen House?"

"He left after receiving a call. Probably from the team?"

"No, he isn't with them," Cuddy frowned as she paged House again. "He's not in his office either."

Chase and Cameron exchanged glances. "What's up?"

"Wilson was in a car accident."

Cameron put her fork down, and sat up. "How did you find out?"

Cuddy sighed. "I called his cell, and a nurse from New York Mercy picked up. He's in New York for a conference, and we were supposed to meet up. I was calling to confirm dinner for tomorrow. I thought… House would want to know."

Chase stood up. "I'll find him."

Cameron nodded, wiping her mouth with a napkin as she dropped her fork. "I'll help you."

* * *

><p>House was uncontactable, and nowhere to be found. Giving up, Cuddy drove up to New York herself, leaving instructions for his team to call her if he turned up somewhere.<p>

She didn't expect to find him by Wilson's bed.

"House."

He gave no sign that he'd heard her. Cuddy sighed, and walked towards the bed. Still no reaction.

Wilson was still unconscious. She picked up his chart, and carefully perused through it. Broken arm, and a slight concussion.

"I was looking for you," she asked quietly. "How did you find out?"

House didn't reply her. He only sat there quietly, not quite looking at Wilson. She didn't probe further, only sitting there next to him, waiting. She hadn't spent time with him for a while – all attempts to converse with him for beyond five minutes had been rebuffed quickly. Gone was their flirting and quick-fire banter. She missed it, almost desperately. She never knew how much fire and excitement House brought to her job – without him making her life more interesting, her job as an administrator was dreary.

In the unforgiving glare of the fluorescent lights, she could see dark shadows under his eyes, and his far too prominent cheekbones. She wondered whether he was eating properly when he wasn't at the hospital. How much alcohol he'd been consuming on average. How bad the migraines (at least, those he had at home and not in the hospital) were.

Two hours passed before a soft groan from the bed was heard. Wilson was regaining consciousness.

Before Cuddy could react, House was on his feet and limping out the door.

She stared at his retreating form, torn between wanting to chase after him and staying by Wilson's side.

"Cuddy?" Wilson mumbled from the bed.

Cuddy suddenly felt like bursting into tears. She closed her eyes for a long while, opening them to find that House was no longer in sight.

"Wilson," she plastered her best smile on as she turned around. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been in a car accident," Wilson groaned. "So much for dinner."

Cuddy considered mentioning that House had been here, but knew from prior experience that even mentioning House made Wilson shut down. And she didn't want to do that.

Wilson was only just beginning to heal, his regular sessions with his therapist and group therapy starting to pay off. He had confided in her that moving away from Princeton (away from House, it was implied) had made it easier. His workload as Assistant Department Head at Massachusetts General was lighter for the moment, and he had more time to pursue other hobbies like cooking and fishing.

He had time.

For himself.

House, on the other hand, was going nowhere. He was stuck. Weighed down by the consequences of events he had no way of anticipating when he went to a bar one afternoon. He'd even asked Amber to go home, since Wilson didn't come, but she had chosen to follow him on the bus out of goodwill.

And she was both his and House's friend.

_What a mess._

* * *

><p><em>AN: Even though I anticipated this season being House's last, I'm still sad to see it end. This show captivated me from the very start: the anti-hero as the hero we all love to hate and hate to love; who seems callous and clinical, but who cares so much for others he needs to distance himself; who carries around so much guilt and self-loathing, but shows none of it; who has been let down by so many others and lives in constant pain; who is so deeply flawed, but still innately good. _

_I still have so many ideas buzzing around in my head that I intend to turn into fics. I've stuck by this show despite its deteriorating quality, and I'll be here even after its end, writing. There will be more House/Wilson fics coming up, their friendship is just too complex and beautiful for me to leave it to canon. _


	7. Chapter 7

Wilson measured his life by _before _and _after_ now.

The accident in New York happened three months after she died. He met her a few months before. He used to be a department head before. He loved her smile before.

He came to understand one thing: when someone you love died, and you weren't expecting it, you didn't lose her all at once. You lost her in pieces over time.

Amber's perfume scent gradually faded away from his clothes. The movies she liked sat untouched on his shelf. There was no more baked pasta, or chicken parmesan, or homemade roast chicken avocado sandwiches.

Just when he thought he had gotten over it, another day would come where he would stumble across something small. Something she loved, or something she hated. And then her beautiful face, their shared memories, the way they would gravitate towards one another's bodies in bed, would surface in his mind, and the raw feeling of grief would just overwhelm him again.

As much as he liked to believe that he would be able to grieve and recover more easily away from Princeton, away from House, he was slowly realizing that it wasn't the case. She would haunt his thoughts everywhere, and anywhere. The pink roses at the florist. Norah Jones' music. Prawn and avocado salads. Mangoes. Everything and anything that he had come to know were her favourites, were now just painful reminders.

It didn't help that he still had a mug that had her lipstick stain on it.

So it had been four months since she died, and Wilson still felt _stuck_. Yes, he went for therapy; yes, he had more time for himself and his patients, but there was more time to think, no one to relieve the tedium and boredom from seeing dying patients back-to-back in a boring day, and no one to be just plain ol' Wilson – not _Wilson the oncologist_ – with.

He had no way of moving forward.

* * *

><p>Cuddy's phone call came out of the blue on a Thursday morning, three weeks after his accident in New York. Four months <em>after<em>.

"Wilson," her voice was barely above a whisper. Wilson had to strain to hear her. "House… His mom passed away yesterday. Heart attack in her sleep." There was pause, and then she took a deep breath. "Are you coming to the funeral? I… he… she would probably have wanted you there." Another pause. "Please, I think you should come."

Wilson was silent.

Then, she added almost in a last-ditch attempt, "Just for her."

Wilson didn't know what exactly to feel. But he found himself packing, almost robotically, and purchasing a ticket for a flight to Lexington.

He knew Blythe well. They'd spent many a day together after the infarction, caring for House. They still talked on the phone, sometimes. And she always sent him a gift on Christmas, and vice versa.

Wilson knew House had a special relationship with his mom. Blythe was the only person who could make House smile so genuinely and unabashedly. She was the only person House cared for unconditionally. He could never bring himself to disappoint her, or break her heart. And she, too, loved him unconditionally despite the sullenness and bitterness and pain she had to endure from him post-infarction.

So when Wilson found himself in the plane to Lexington, he told himself he was going there to pay his respects to Blythe House, a woman he had come to love like his own mother over the last fifteen, twenty years.

He wasn't going there for House. He wasn't.

He couldn't afford to be there for House anyway, not with the lingering grief that refused to dissipate despite the months that had gone by.

This was all for himself.

Wilson was an hour and a half late by the time he reached the funeral parlor in the rented car, thanks to the flight delay that had him waiting for three hours on the tarmac.

Hastily straightening his coat and checking his watch, Wilson jogged towards the stately-looking building, having parked several hundred yards away. He tried to push the thought – _the eagerness?_ – of seeing House again. It was, after all, wrong of him to even anticipate seeing everyone from PPTH again. He was supposed to dread it, not look forward to it. They all had thought she was a Cut-Throat Bitch when she was in that ridiculous Survivor-esque game of House's anyway.

So yes, he was going to sit somewhere near the back and remain inconspicuous. He was here because he knew Blythe, and had liked her tremendously. He wasn't here in his capacity as House's friend.

As Wilson was approaching the funeral parlor, though, a side door burst open. Wilson stopped in his tracks and immediately pressed himself again the wall, hoping to remain out of sight.

It turned out there was no need to try conceal himself. House kept his eyes firmly on the ground as he limped almost frantically towards the main road. His face was cast in shadows, courtesy of the trees that lined the path, but Wilson could read the hunched shoulders and tense way with which House held himself.

"House!" Cuddy's voice rang out, desperation all too clear in her voice. "House, stop!"

House forged on with his head down, as if he heard nothing.

Then, with one misstep, House stumbled and fell down the three steps at the bottom of the path, landing on his side, crutch clattering to the floor.

Wilson felt himself automatically begin to move forward, the desire to help long ingrained into him, but he forced himself to stop, his heart hammering in his chest.

House extended shaking hands for the crutch and the tree trunk of a conveniently located tree to pull himself upright again before starting off determinedly towards the main road again, limp so bad it was more of a step-and-drag.

"House!" Chase, this time. And Cameron. "Please stop... Stop, House!"

But House didn't stop, instead keeping his head down and continuing to flee the scene.

"Chase… Chase, go after him!" It wasn't an order that came out of Cuddy's mouth, it was a desperate plea. "Don't let him – _House_! Your dad didn't mean it… Stop, House!"

Chase and Cameron ran out from the side door, chasing after the limping figure that had by now made it to the main road. Cameron slowed down by the middle of the lawn, aware that Chase was much faster, and she stood there, hands on her knees, watching as her boyfriend chased House.

But House had too far of a lead. They could only watch helplessly as House scrambled into a taxi. Chase reached the taxi, but barely even touched it before it pulled away with screeching tires.

He turned back and yelled over his shoulder, "I'll get the car!"

Cameron began running again, towards Chase, and Wilson watched as they headed towards the parking lot.

The lawn fell into silence, the commotion having abruptly ended. Wilson tried to still his thumping heart, tried to pretend that he wasn't positively dying to find out what had happened, only to run nearly head-on into Cuddy.

He found himself asking, "What happened?" God, he hated how desperately he wanted to know.

"He punched House…" Cuddy whispered frantically. "John House… House's dad… He punched House." She sounded like she couldn't quite believe it. "God, he actually punched House in front of everyone."

"_What_?" To say Wilson was taken aback was an understatement. Sure, House had never been on great terms with John House, but to have John House actually resort to violence at Blythe's funeral was the last thing Wilson expected. John House valued far too much his appearance and image, and it would have been further so in front of his ex-Marine friends… right?

Right at that very moment, John House strode out of the funeral parlor. And from what Wilson saw, John House had lost none of his confidence and energy despite years having gone by. The way he walked, the way he moved, all proclaimed his identity as a _war veteran_ to the world.

"Where is my son?" John House asked. He didn't shout, but the lethal undercurrent of anger in his voice was plain. "Where's Greg?"

"Mr House… I - "

"_Colonel _House."

Cuddy flinched. "Colonel House – "

"Don't make any excuses for Greg. He always does this: hiding behind someone's back, making excuses. He just doesn't _want_ to make an effort. He always takes the easy way out."

Cuddy's mouth snapped shut, and she involuntarily took a step back. It was Colonel House the decorated Marine, standing in front of them, not John House, husband of Blythe House for fifty years.

John House's gaze shifted over to Wilson, who stood there mutely with his hands shoved in his pockets. He narrowed his eyes. "You weren't here with Greg earlier."

Wilson forced a smile onto his face. There was no need to let John House know what had happened between him and House. "I got held up at the hospital."

"I tried to call you several times when we couldn't reach Greg," John said accusingly.

Wilson winced internally. He'd changed his number in a concerted bid to leave everything behind and literally start afresh. "I… changed my number."

The scrutinizing look that House usually had was eerily similar to that which was on John's face at the moment. John seemed to realize something. "Something happened between you and Greg."

Wilson ducked his head, not quite sure what to do at this point.

"So what did he do to piss you off? That boy never knows his limits. I always told Blythe, _it's a matter of time before Greg steps over the line_. She always told me that she was so glad Greg had a friend like you. She was always praising you."

Wilson felt a pang in his heart at Blythe's trust in him. Like everyone who mourned the death of someone who they had known well, he thought he should have kept in better contact with her.

"Well, Wilson. I can't say I blame you. Greg has a gift for pissing people off. Couldn't even bring himself to read an eulogy for his own mother at her funeral. And she was always so good to him. I told her Blythe, don't be too lenient with him. And look what he is now. He is a disgraceful – "

"Colonel House," Cuddy cut in, her eyes blazing. She straightened, visibly enraged. "I told you he was having a migraine. It was agony for him to even – "

John was matter-of-fact, and that was perhaps what was most chilling. "Excuses, Dr Cuddy. Don't shield him. He's never had them – " Wilson found himself scuffing the heel of his leather shoes against the gravel at that statement. "He's always been a lazy – "

"Colonel?"

John was interrupted by the pastor, who had suddenly appeared behind him. The pastor shot Cuddy and Wilson a look before laying a hand on John's shoulders and saying, "We are waiting for you. We're about to finish things for the day."

As the pastor led John away, Wilson couldn't take his eyes off John, who had slumped his shoulders as he remembered that he was at his wife's funeral., letting himself be led away by the pastor. Wilson, against all odds, found himself feeling sorry for John, who had lost his wife, only to have his only son be unwilling to read an eulogy for his mother. As an ex-Marine, he had probably wanted everything to go off without a hitch.

"You okay?" he says softly to Cuddy, who, too, is staring at the two older men walk away. "He was rather… He's like that." He told himself that John House was a grieving widower. Maybe he was one of those who expressed his grief by lashing out at others. His son, specifically.

Cuddy nodded, somewhat speechless. Her cell phone rang.

"Chase... Please tell me you managed to catch up with… He could be anywhere…" Cuddy sighed and pinched her nose bridge. "He hasn't been to a bar in months… Yeah… Keep me updated…"

Cuddy snapped her phone shut with an efficient click, and turned to face Wilson. Wilson found himself asking, "How has he been?"

Cuddy pressed her lips together, forming a sad smile. "How do you think he's been? His balance and coordination are still off, and the migraines are debilitating.

The look of hope and desperation on her face was too obvious to Wilson who found, to his surprise, that he desperately did want to know how House was doing. But at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to get involved with House again. He was doing so well away from House now. He couldn't go back to what it used to be. He was doing fine, he told himself firmly. "Look, Wilson. I know – "

"I better go in," Wilson said hastily. "I'm here to pay my respects to Blythe, after all. Then I'll have to rush back to the hospital." He tugged Cuddy into a hug, and planted a kiss on her cheek. "We'll catch up soon, Cuddy."

Before Cuddy had a chance to even react, Wilson was turning away and heading into the funeral parlor, leaving her standing alone on the pathway, cellphone in hand.

Cuddy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Making her choice, she turned away from the funeral parlor, and got into her car.

* * *

><p>Wilson found himself sitting outside the funeral parlor on a bench, staring at the willow trees. The feeling of attending yet another funeral, mourning yet another death, and losing yet another person he knew, hit far too close to home.<p>

"I'm Pastor Lyons," remarked the silver-haired man who sat down next to Wilson. "You are…?"

Wilson extended his hand. "Dr James Wilson."

"You're a doctor? Like Gregory, then."

"Oncology. We used to work in the same hospital together."

"Tough specialty." Pastor Lyons remarked. "My sister dropped out of it after she realised she couldn't handle seeing dying patients everyday. You must be very brave."

Wilson shrugged with a polite smile.

"You seem troubled, Dr Wilson."

Wilson had never been a particularly religious Jew. But somehow, with the gentle grandfatherly pastor – who reminded him so much of his own grandfather - sitting next to him, he found himself telling him, "My girlfriend died a few months ago. In a bus accident. It's just… a little hard to handle right now."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Wilson accepted the condolences with a nod, but eagerly changed the subject. "It was a beautiful service for Blythe, despite what happened earlier."

At this, the pastor sighed and leaned back against the bench. "John wanted it to go perfectly. It wasn't perfect, but that doesn't mean it wasn't beautiful."

"That is true."

"John always had been harsh on Greg." Wilson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "He's an impatient man, and couldn't always deal with Greg's questions and need to know why. Blythe, on the other hand, loved how inquisitive her boy was. She was so proud of him when he became a doctor. He was her pride and – "

"I have to go," Wilson interrupted hastily. "I – I need to head back to the hospital. It was nice meeting you, Pastor Lyons."

Pastor Lyons stared at Wilson sadly, as though he had more to say. He considered things for a while before reluctantly saying, "Don't let an old man like me hold up a good doctor like you." He clapped Wilson on the shoulders, standing up, and nodded. "It must be hard moving on, but what feels like a fresh, sharp wound now, will eventually heal. It will leave a scar, and you'll never be able to forget it. But one day, you'll realize that it doesn't hurt anymore, and that you can move on, and that what you have left with you that can never be taken away is that happy memories. I pray that you will find healing and forgiveness. All the best, Dr Wilson."

Pastor Lyons watched Wilson walk away with his wise, sad eyes. He stared out over the hill for a while, before turning and heading back to his office, filled with a sense of regret that he would never be able to meet someone else to talk about the tumultuous relationship between John and Gregory.

He had wanted to find out whether House had truly gotten over, or even emerged stronger from, what he had endured during his childhood. He was an old man now, and he wanted to get off his chest what he had kept secret since all those years ago when he was a cowardly, patriotic young man who was unwilling to ruin the image and name of one of the most respected war veterans in their little town.

Jacob Lyons knew he would never be able to forgive himself for not intervening and stepping in to help the frightened, scrawny child that was six-year-old Gregory House.

* * *

><p>"Oh god, there he is," Cameron leaned forward, straining at her seatbelt. She pointed at the sole figure sprawled outside House's apartment. "Pull over, quick."<p>

It was scarily easy to maneuver the half-conscious and dead-drunk House into the apartment. A man as tall as House should have weighed at least twenty pounds more. House mumbled incoherently as they set him down on the bed, curling up slightly around a grey blanket.

"Oh," exclaimed Cameron in dismay as House's shirt rode up to reveal a stunning bruise on his hip. She immediately went in search for first-aid supplies.

Chase took it upon himself to remove House's shoes, coat and blue dress shirt, leaving him in a grey t-shirt that he was sure used to fit tighter on House. It felt reminiscent of the times he would take care of his mother when she was in too much of a drunken stupor to even get into bed, and he hated it.

Cameron came back with sparse supplies and got to work on the nasty abrasions on House's elbow, forearm and left hand. The split lip and shiner on his jaw courtesy of John House would eventually fade. The bruise on his hip, spreading right down to the edge of the scar on House's leg, would prove to be hell for the next few weeks.

Chase sighed as he deposited House's keys and phone on the bedside table.

"I can't believe he walked home from The Brown Shoe," whispered Cameron. "It's five miles from here. He could have gotten mugged. Or worse."

Chase frowned. It turned out that House had him as "Wombat" on the cell phone, and it was the odd name that had prompted the bartender to dial his number instead of the others. It turned out that to be the only thing the bartender did right, because when Chase and Cameron arrived at the bar, the bartender had sheepishly told them that he'd lost sight of House.

House mumbled something in his sleep before clutching the grey blanket tighter to his chest.

Chase said nothing. He was furious. Not with House. He was feeling angry with Wilson, who had walked away without even a look back. He was feeling angry at House's father, who had actually punched House in front of countless other people. He was angry with himself, for not having tried harder to dissuade House and Wilson from the DBS. It gnawed at him everyday when he saw House, and remembered how he'd had a part to play in things coming to this juncture. Cuddy had never really forgiven him for it, and he couldn't blame her.

Cameron pulled the covers up around House, cleaned up, and sent a text to Cuddy. House's apartment was in disarray, with books all over the floor and haphazardly stacked, but Cameron resisted the urge to clean up. Making sure to leave no trace that they'd been here behind, Chase and Cameron let themselves out of House's apartment.

Chase found himself gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles, unable to simply drive away. Cameron silently pulled his head onto her shoulder, wrapping her arm around him.


	8. Chapter 8

In the end, it was inevitable. He couldn't avoid Princeton forever.

Wilson found himself driving in Princeton one Friday evening, headed for his new goddaughter's _simchat bat_. Despite the six months that had gone by, everything still felt – for lack of better words – the same.

He didn't know why the hell he expected it to be different. But he did.

Plenty of people he knew from PPTH were there. They greeted him like an old friend: with hugs, kisses on the cheeks, laughter, joy, warmth. The unfortunate death of Amber had faded from their consciousness. It was Dr James Wilson in front of them – popular, compassionate, handsome, and one of their own.

Wilson expected himself to feel uncomfortable. Instead, for the first time in months, he found himself laughing and smiling and feeling happy, loosening up. With a glass of wine in his hand, he mingled with his ex-coworkers and laughed and got himself caught up on recent happenings.

It was then that he began to realize that his hastily running away from Princeton, from PPTH, had entailed more than just cutting ties with House. He'd left behind friends, and relationships, and memories, an entire life, which he had come to love and treasure and now, need. There was only so much that email, Skype and the occasional phone-call could do.

In fact, when he'd first received the news about him becoming a godfather, his instinct was to feel uncomfortable. He had felt gloriously happy for Cuddy finally having the child she'd always wanted, of course. But the selfish, cruel side of him imagined – was this some kind of ploy to lure him back to Princeton, and back into House's life again?

After all, Cuddy would do anything for House.

But then Cuddy had told him that he was the first to know that the adoption process had succeeded, and she really wanted a Jewish godfather for Rachel, and he knew he couldn't say no.

Wilson gently took the infant from Cuddy, and cradled her against his chest. She snuffled, turning her head instinctively towards him, her lips forming a perfect 'O' as she yawned. Wilson was enthralled as he traced her perfect eyebrows with his pinky finger.

Entrusted with this little girl, this human being, he felt something that had long been grey and dead in him, come alive. He felt alive.

"Hello, Rachel Cuddy," he whispered. "I'm your godpapa."

As Cuddy watched Wilson coo over Rachel, she thought back to when she had brought Rachel to meet House.

He'd been in his recliner, staring into space. She had sat down brazenly on the ottoman, pointedly ignoring his flinch as he drew away, uncomfortable at her being in his space.

Casually, she had handed her baby over to him. "This is Rachel," she had said. "Rachel, meet House."

As House held Rachel at arms' length, scrutinizing her, Cuddy swore she saw something in House's steely blue eyes soften.

No, not soften.

Crumble.

And when Rachel spit up on him, he hadn't complained. He had, instead, drew her close to him, cradling her to his chest. It was almost as if he had been in a trance, the way he slid his pinky finger into a tiny fist, lines on his face melting away, studying this little miracle in his arms.

But the moment had been fleeting. House had stiffened suddenly, as though coming back to himself. He had handed Rachel back to her, escaping quickly, seeming almost mortified at having been caught with his guard down, craving the human touch, and allowing himself to reach out, connecting with only the most innocent.

Looking at Rachel in her godfather's arms at the moment, Cuddy could not help but see the similarity. In both men, in both their quiet moments with Rachel, something had come alive.

* * *

><p>Wilson got news of Kutner's suicide on a Tuesday morning.<p>

Wilson was just about to go for lunch when he received the message from Cuddy. He sat down in his chair and stared into space. In his mind, Kutner was the happy-go-lucky fellow who was trigger-happy with a defibrillator. He was well-intentioned, bumbling guy who seemed like the kind to believe that everyone, even the worst of them, had some good in them. He was open-minded, and reveled in the excitement that being House's fellow inevitably brought about.

Of course, there was the whole watching-his-parents-get-killed-in-front-of-him issue, but Kutner seemed like a remarkably well-adjusted individual despite being an Indian kid in a white family.

It was the second tragedy in PPTH in less than a year. The turnout at the funeral was huge – staff and patients had liked Kutner after all. Then there was the media. Of course they had dug up information about Kutner's background.

_LOCAL DOCTOR COMMITS SUICIDE _

_INDIAN DOCTOR WHO WATCHED PARENTS GET KILLED COMMITS SUICIDE TWENTY YEARS LATER. _

_CAN PTSD MANIFEST ONLY YEARS OR DECADES IN THE FUTURE? _

_PSYCHOLOGISTS WEIGH IN: WAS MURDER OF PARENTS ONLY FACTOR?_

It was insane. Absolutely batshit insane.

Wilson felt as though he was in a fugue. Less than a year ago, he was seeing to Amber's funeral. And here he was again, at another funeral for another one of House's fellows.

He overheard some discreet conversations. There were whispers of how House could have contributed to Kutner's suicide. Did House push Kutner too hard? Did Kutner put the gun to his head after perhaps, getting fired by House? Did House make a racist joke that went too far, finally causing Kutner to snap?

Wilson overheard some of these, and involuntarily felt his hackles raise. House was rude, yes, and made inappropriate jokes, yes, but he had never done so out of pure cruelty. He had always done so to prove a point, or to show others that they were being hypocritical. And it was precisely because his team was strong enough to withstand such insults that they were good doctors. If they had proven themselves affected by words, then they would never have been able to handle the stress of being part of the Diagnostics team, or even as doctors. And Kutner had proven himself to be more than tenacious.

It was a stark contrast to a few months ago. A few months ago, Wilson would have agreed that House was a toxic presence. But time had dulled the raw, gaping wounds, and it had been almost a year.

Deaths that hit too close to home spurred people to evaluate their lives, and make changes. Just like Amber's death had caused Wilson to re-evaluate his life, and his friendship, with House. And he had found that it was not healthy, the dependency House had on him. So he had stepped away from it.

So here he was again, beginning to re-evaluate his life. And Wilson began to realize that perhaps, it wasn't always House depending on him. He too, had relied on House for fun and laughter and sarcasm in a profession where he was constantly fighting an uphill battle against Death. House had always been there when he needed to take his mind off things like his failing marriages and soul-sucking job. House made him feel like his soul wasn't being sucked away into a void of nothingness; they found joy in the small things like good beer, good cigars, bad porn, trashy TV shows, practical jokes and insane antics that included pissing Cuddy (or Foreman) off, leading the team on a wild goose chases and just… poking fun at the world.

Wilson was surrounded by people he knew at the funeral. He felt as though he was still part of PPTH, grieving for the loss of one of their own. He began to feel keenly the effects of his rash decision to uproot himself and leave. PPTH would always be a part of him. House would always be a part of him.

And Wilson began to feel okay with that.

So he couldn't stop himself from peering around, looking for a particular man. Cuddy caught Wilson's eye. He forced himself not to shift his gaze away, well-aware that she knew who he was looking for. She smiled – half encouragement, half sadness – and turned away.

* * *

><p>It took Wilson another one and a half months before he dared venture with an email to House.<p>

He was feeling lonely. Cuddy had asked him to stop visiting for a while. _Personal reasons_, she had said. _Some family matters that need to be settled. I'll be busy for these few weeks. _He had tried to probe, to see if he could help, but she had been distracted and (he didn't know if he was imagining it) _cold_ towards him.

He didn't like it, especially since he'd lost so much and so many already, but he understood the need for her to sort things out with her family.

So he was lonely. And all he could think of was _God I wish I could pop over to House's apartment_. Where he could cook for two, watch soaps or trashy reality TV together, and just have fun.

_Fun_.

It was hard to remember, really, what fun was.

He remembered House calling him several times for the first two months, and not answering the calls, or even worse, answering, giving false hope, before hanging up viciously without saying a word. After the sixth call, he had changed his number.

But after Kutner's death, Wilson found himself needing more. The job at Massachusetts General was great, because there was less paperwork and more patient interaction. He had a cushy office, there was a great staff lounge that had a pool table, and he even had his own two fellows with whom he was conducting a research project on neuroblastomas. But there was no one on the hospital staff he could really click with – those around his age were married, and busy with their own families. There was Dr Wesley, but he was weird. Nurses still flirted with Wilson, but he found that he didn't derive the same joy from getting into their panties anymore.

Despite being in one of the most bustling cities of the world, surrounded by millions of people, Wilson had never felt more alone.

He was well and truly stuck, and it took several sessions with his therapist for him to figure out that perhaps, he needed to find some healing back at where he had run away from. Or, that maybe, his decision to move away had been rash. He had allowed himself barely any preparation, uprooting himself and where he had lived for years, leaving behind people and relationships and memories in a fit of pique and grief.

So the email. Wilson agonized over it for days. House wouldn't take sentimentality. He also would be able to tell if something was extraordinarily contrived. Wilson thought of an idea – he was about to publish a paper. He could ask House to help him look through it. It usually took much cajoling and bargaining for House to do so, but Wilson knew House was usually proud of his published papers. House respected him as a doctor. He tried hard to hide it, but Wilson could tell. After all, House never ripped his papers to shreds – he instead gave constructive criticism and pointed out areas for improvement.

But, that seemed like he was just _using_ House.

So, Wilson settled for a simple email on a Tuesday morning, one month, two weeks and three days after Kutner's funeral.

_Hi House, _

_I know we haven't spoken in months. But I just read this paper about paraneoplastic syndrome, and I somehow thought of you. _

_How are you? _

_Wilson _

He waited for three days, but there was no response.

At first, he thought this was House getting one back at him, choosing to walk away from him when he had first walked away from House. But he knew House well - House would jump at the chance to reconcile with him no matter what. He knew deep down that no matter what, whether he liked it or not, he was an integral part of House's life. It was almost unhealthy, how House had come to need him.

And now, it seemed like he needed House as well.

The second email,

_(Perhaps my previous email didn't get through. How are you, House? I really do want to know.) _

didn't get a reply either.

By now, things were beginning to quiet from Princeton. Emails from ex-colleagues – doctors, nurses – had begun to taper off. Even Cuddy's. Wilson had never felt more disconnected.

He called Cuddy ten days after the first email.

She sounded hesitant on the phone, and he could detect the undertone of distress in her usually calm and cool voice. She was hiding something from him.

(_House is not here. But he's going to be fine. No, I mean, he is fine. I… I have to go, Wilson. You take care.)_

Going to be fine. What the hell did that mean?

After that, she stopped returning his calls. That meant she would rather ignore him than talk to him, for fear of divulging something. She knew all too well that she had a soft heart when it came to House and him.

In the end, it was Cameron who agreed to meet him.

He spotted the ring on her finger. "Congratulations," he said. "You and Chase…?"

She must have noticed the hurt look on his face, for she nodded, and then added, "It was a quiet ceremony, two weeks ago. Just us and a few close friends."

"Chase didn't want me there," Wilson guessed. "He's mad at me."

Cameron hesitated, and then nodded slowly.

"House… he was happy for you both?" Wilson ventured. "He must have been."

Cameron flinched. She visibly steeled herself. "You need to know something…"

Wilson heart began to speed up. He should have known. His House radar was always spot-on – that niggling feeling was there, had been there since the first email went unanswered.

He was just about to ask what happened when his mouth snapped shut.

He had thought he was ready – but now, it felt like he was not at all prepared to have the House-brand of trouble and happenings introduced back into his life at all.

"Stop," Wilson said hastily. "Stop." He stood up too quickly, almost toppling his chair over. "I have to go."

Cameron's jaw dropped. "You were one who asked to meet me!"

"I thought I was prepared for this," Wilson stumbled over his words as he shrugged on his coat. "But I'm not."

"Wilson…"

"I have to go."

"You wanted to know," insisted Cameron. She grabbed his elbow. "You _need_ to know about this."

Wilson's heart clenched. But he knew he couldn't let himself be sucked into House's destructive vortex. He shrugged off her hand. "He has to deal with this himself. I can't always be there to prop him up."

He felt as though he were doing an elaborate dance: one step towards House was always followed by him making a retreat backwards.

It was unfair for everyone, him being this fickle-minded. He was stringing House along by sending those emails, and stringing Cameron and everyone else along by asking after House. Yet, he couldn't seem to make a clean break.

"You're abandoning him, Wilson!" Cameron strided alongside him as he made his way towards the restaurant's exit. "He made a mistake, and he's paying for it. You're running away from the one person that can give you healing!"

Wilson spun around. "Being away from him is what is working for me right now." It came out unconvincingly.

Cameron softened. The uncertainty must have been plain on his face. "You need to work things out with him. Running away isn't going to solve anything."

The tone of voice she used… Wilson finally understood why House hated it. He started to walk away, and this time, Cameron didn't follow.

"He needs you," she shouted across the parking lot.

_Yeah well, I don't need him._

Wilson kept his head down and continued on and away.

_I think. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Warning for graphic description of a suicide attempt. **

* * *

><p>Despite the fact that Dr Jamie Bower had been the Meadow View's in-house physician for five years, he had to admit that he rarely treated resident Gregory House. Not because Gregory House was a relatively healthy resident – in fact, he was one of the most sickly, thanks to his liver and heart problems, not to mention the post-traumatic epilepsy – but because he had his own personal team of doctors. Oh, and also because Greg absolutely refused to cooperate with him, protesting in small but very much observable ways.<p>

It was a little intimidating, actually, for a relatively normal doctor like him to have to deal with all these reknowned doctors. And also extremely annoying. He couldn't do anything for Greg without second-guessing himself or worrying that he was doing something that would be cause for interrogation by Dr Chase or Dr Cuddy. Dr Cameron was the more understanding one - he could at least chat with her occasionally. Dr Chase and Dr Cuddy though… they had exacting standards of absolute hell.

Chase breezed into House's room cheerfully, the tub of ice-cream sweating in his hand. Seeing House asleep, he stuffed the ice-cream into the mini-fridge at the corner of the room, and let the pretense of cheerfulness slip off his face.

Chewing on his lip, he began to check on House's condition. The chest was sounding slightly crackly, and the low-grade fever showed no signs of abating. The chart showed two complex-partial seizures in the past twenty-four hours. Two too many for Chase, but he knew House tended to have seizures when he was running a fever.

At the feel of the cool metal of the stethoscope on his chest, House stirred.

"Morning… I could hear you snoring from down the hallway," Chase murmured gently. House was always a little disoriented when he woke up. He needed some time to get his engines going. "Your chest is sounding a little crackly, hmm?" He let his fingers brush against House's skin every once in a while as he examined House. Little signs of affection. "Don't want it to get into full-blown pneumonia, yeah? Can't ever forget how disastrous that was last year."

Fifteen years ago, he would never have imagined himself talking to his cantankerous, fiercely independent mentor in this way.

Yet, here he was now.

" 'ase," House blinked sluggishly several times, somehow sounding both happy and scared at the same time. "'Immy."

Chase lowered the railing of the bed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. House curled his fingers slightly, and Chase acquiesced, slipping his hand into House's. "Wilson's flight got delayed for a few hours. He's coming, okay?"

There was a pause as House processed Chase's statement. Chase held his breath.

"Bad Howz." House's face crumpled. Crap. "Not coming."

"No no no no," Chase soothed. He pulled House into his arms carefully, mindful of the tubes. He rested House's head against his shoulder, and rubbed circles on House's back. This was when it worst: when House lost sense of time and travelled back to a time when Wilson had left and had not come back. "He's coming back. We're celebrating your birthday tomorrow, remember?"

House's head drooped. "Not coming," he repeated, starting to cry. "Bad Howz. Sorry." Chase could feel House feebly try to push himself away from Chase. But he refused to give in.

It was, actually, what House would have done years ago – pull away emotionally, not let anyone in. But here, now, he had his heart on his sleeve all the time, and what he felt was plain for anyone and everyone to see.

It made them feel less helpless, and they could do more for him. It was nice not being pushed away. But they all rued what it had cost for him to 'open up'.

Despite Chase's repeated assurances that Wilson was indeed on his way, House remained restless and distressed, repeating _sorry_ and _bad Howz_. Chase could only wipe House down with a cool cloth, and humming tuneless, but comforting tunes.

Once in a while, he would find himself saying _sorry_ back to House. All these years, and he still couldn't quite accept how things had come to this stage. He'd had a part to play in it too – if he hadn't agreed to do the DBS, perhaps Wilson would never have had the chance to blame House for Amber's death. That was the slippery slope that had led them all to this. And he would never know for sure if his DBS procedure had been a factor in House developing post-traumatic epilepsy.

Guilt. It was a powerful motivator.

* * *

><p>In hindsight, the first sign of things going wrong was probably House's sudden aversion to the color red. Why they hadn't noticed it, they would never know, and they would rue that fact for years to come.<p>

Overnight, his giant tennis ball, red mug and other knick-knacks with the color red disappeared. They found the fragments of his mug in his trash bin.

Then came the copious amounts of energy drinks he was chugging, together with the coffee. He practically vibrated with caffeinated energy, and he went around a lot more cheerful than seemed possible. He solved cases frighteningly fast, not hesitating to force himself to stay overnight at the hospital. Epiphanies came fast and furious despite Wilson not being around – sometimes, the team didn't even have to say anything. He would be staring into space when the look would dawn upon his face and he would gleefully spring up and speed off towards the patient's room. He didn't nap anymore in the day, instead crushing the cans of coffee and energy drinks up and tossing them into his bin with unerring accuracy.

They would catch him talking to what seemed like no-one, only to have him reveal that he was on his Bluetooth headset "talking to my favourite hooker in Russia".

At least he was joking with them and leading them on differentials again. He still kept to himself and was more detached, and the jokes were a little contrived to those of the past, but at least they had made a reappearance.

It was better than the lack of caring about anything. It was definitely better to have him pick himself up and get on with life without Wilson.

He threw himself into organizing Chase's bachelor party with uncharacteristic excitement. It was almost manic. But they decided that he was that way than another.

Cameron didn't quite like the idea of Chase having a wild stag night. But the fact that House was having what seemed like a lot of fun, made her relent; not to mention the fact that her fiancé needed to get out and have some fun, not keep mulling over the tragic events that had occurred in the past few months. Even Cuddy turned a blind eye to the fact that he set a corpse on alcohol-fueled fire in the morgue.

It was like he was House again. The spark in his eyes had returned, and he seemed to be getting better. They all breathed more easily.

No one really quite noticed how his energy and enthusiasm tapered off before the anticipated event. The Bluetooth headset disappeared, and he started spacing out, losing grip on reality. He spent almost all of the party locked in the bathroom, with no mood to entertain the countless strippers or join in the obnoxious and crude games that were the norm for stag nights.

When Chase went into anaphylactic shock from the strawberry body butter the hooker had so generously applied on her body, however, House emerged from the bathroom.

It was plain to him now, the truth. Painfully plain.

As Chase lay in the ambulance en-route to the hospital, just in case, House was hanging on to the edge of his shirt with white-knuckled fists. Chase couldn't ignore the fact that House was chanting under breath "don't die don't die don't die don't die".

He removed the oxygen mask that wasn't entirely necessary. "I'm not going to die," he managed to croak out. "I'm fine, see?"

House didn't react to that, instead staring at some corner of the ambulance. He shook his head, hard, as if to clear it. "No," he said once, not even looking at Chase. He retreated to lean against the wall, staring at the corner of the ambulance with wide eyes.

House made a reappearance in the ER cubicle a while later, while Chase was getting checked out by the attending on duty. There was an odd look on his face, one that Chase couldn't place. Something was wrong.

House had his bag slung over his shoulder. He came to stand at the foot of the bed, intentionally keeping some distance away between him and Chase, silent and watching as the attending examined Chase.

"I'm fine, House," Chase reassured. His mind, though, was working in overdrive. Something was wrong, and he couldn't figure it out. The look on House's face… something was just wrong. "It was a blast of a party."

House shot a furtive look to the left. His voice was oddly flat. "I nearly killed you."

"It was an accident," Chase responded, frowning.

"I knew you were allergic to strawberries."

"You couldn't control what kind of body butter she used."

"I know she uses strawberry-flavored body butter."

"It was an accident, House. You can't be expected to remember every small detail about me, or anyone else."

House's lips twisted upwards in a crooked smile that just seemed wrong. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sorry," he offered, eyes still fixed on some distance corner of the cubicle.

Chase followed his gaze. The only things there were some ER supplies, which weren't even being used. House's gaze stuttered back towards Chase, and he had to visibly force himself to make eye-contact with Chase's own concerned blue eyes.

"I have to go. Patient." He paused, and then added, "Goodbye."

Chase watched House's retreating back as he sat there on the lumpy ER gurney. Something was desperately wrong. He couldn't place his finger on it. He checked his watch – it was ten, nearly eleven at night.

The word _goodbye_ resonated with Chase. It conveyed a sense of finality and doom that did not sit well with him at all.

Wouldn't _goodnight_ have been better?

Chase didn't know how he came to the conclusion, or why exactly he did, but when he did, he scrambled out of the ER.

"Where is he?" he asked breathlessly the receptionists. "Did you see Dr House pass by this way?"

They shook their heads in the negative. In fact, no one had seen House leave the hospital. Chase punched out a 911 to Cuddy before heading up to the Diagnostics Department, which was empty. Everything was in its place, untouched. Foreman, however, was in the conference room. He must have checked on the patient after coming from the bachelor party.

"Did you see House?" The words fell out of Chase's mouth in a rush.

Foreman looked up from his laptop. "Yes," he said slowly. "He came up just now."

"Did he say anything?"

"He said _good luck_." Foreman frowned. "He was acting a little weird, actually. Then he took his bag and left."

With a hollow feeling in his chest, Chase made his way up to the roof. What he saw there made his heart stop.

House stood at the ledge, his shirt fluttering slightly in the breeze as he leaned over the edge with his arms outstretched. He stood there casually, staring at the space in front of him. He seemed to be talking to someone, turning his head occasionally to talk to the non-existent person standing next to him.

As Chase advanced slowly towards House, who was unaware of his presence, he felt as though he were travelling in a fog. It was surreal. He could hear Foreman's curse, and Foreman telling him that he was going for help and a sedative.

Chase felt like his ears were wrapped in cotton wool; all he could focus on was the sight of House, on a ledge, six floors from the ground.

"House," Chase croaked. He cleared his throat, then tried again. "House."

House whipped around. His eyes widened.

"What are you doing, House?"

House smiled. "Hi, Chase," he whispered. He seemed distracted, his gaze stuttering to a point three feet from Chase's left ear. The fake smile slid off his face like jell-o off a tilted plate.

"Please get down from there." Chase kept his voice low and calm despite the fact that tension and fear thrummed through his every vein. "It's dangerous there."

House however, seemed unable to focus on Chase fully. His fingers twitched and his eyes darted everywhere except to focus on Chase.

Chase took a step closer. He raised his voice slightly. "House. Look at me. I'm here."

House finally managed to make eye contact with Chase. What Chase saw in those blue eyes took his breath away. The spark had now transformed into a manic, unnaturally bright gleam that chilled Chase to the bone. Chase wildly pushed the thought of them all misinterpreting what they thought had been an excited spark in House's eyes out of his head.

"I can't make her stop," House said softly. He sounded like a lost child, voice uncertain and trembling. "I tried, but she won't stop."

"Make who stop?"

"She's everywhere," House said. "At my apartment, here, in the diner – _I said I was sorry_!" He didn't seem to be talking to Chase anymore, his eyes no longer fixed on Chase's. "He didn't believe me!"

Chase could feel his heart speeding up. "House." When House failed to respond, he tried again. "_House._"

House tore his gaze away from the non-existent person he was seeing and with much difficulty, focused upon Chase again. Chase tried not to let his voice waver. "Who are you talking to, House?"

House didn't answer.

"House."

Distractedly, House spared a glance at Chase.

"Who are you talking to?"

A pause, then House finally answered, "Amber."

Chase felt his heart drop into his gut as his suspicion was confirmed. Now, all the times House spent talking to the Russian hooker on the Bluetooth headset finally made sense.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does."

A pause. "Five weeks." House chuckled humorlessly. "I'm going mad, aren't I?"

"No," Chase ascertained, though he seriously had no idea. He had never excelled in his psychiatry modules. "No, you're not going mad. I'm sure there's an explanation. We'll get you some help, and then we'll work – "

"I'm losing my mind," House was talking more to himself than talking to Chase. "She was helping at first, and everything was so much easier with her around. But now she won't stop. And she's actually right."

"Right?" By now, all Chase was trying to do was draw things out while waiting for backup. He surreptitiously peeked at his phone – though there was no need to hide it, House was that distracted – and hoped like hell that Foreman would appear soon. "Right about what?"

"Her. Mom. Kutner."

Something dawns on Chase. "It's not your fault, House."

"Shouldn't have gotten on the bus. Should have paid more attention to Mom's test results. Should have known he was suicidal."

"You couldn't have known – "

"I _should_ have known," House yelled. He covered his ears with his hands and screwed his eyes shut tight. Chase took the opportunity to take two steps closer before House opened his eyes. "If Wilson came to get me, he would be the one who's dead."

"No – he would have picked you up - "

"Should have noticed that Mom's health was deteriorating – "

"House – "

"Shouldn't have been so tough on Kutner,"

"No, House, listen to me –"

"I have a gun," House abruptly said. "I have my dad's gun at home, but I don't dare to use it." He swayed on the spot for a while before he shot out his hand to steady himself against the low wall. "Yeah," he muttered after a while, eyes on the ground. "I'm a coward."

"House, listen to me." Chase stepped closer, his hands out in front of him. "I know things look bleak now – "

"I don't want to be in pain."

Chase sucked in a deep breath. "No one wants to be in pain."

"Wilson thinks I want everyone to be in pain. I spread misery, and I want everyone to be miserable." House tightened his jaw and clenched his fist. "I _don't _want that for anyone."

"Because you know what it's like," Chase finished for House. "And you don't want anyone to feel the same."

House's nostrils flared.

Chase took that as a yes. "House – "

"I want this to stop," House pleaded. "Make her stop. I've tried everything, but she won't stop."

"It's okay. We'll work something out, and – "

"Wilson's gone. I killed Mom, Kutner and Amber. My leg hurts like fuck, and I'm going crazy." House took a deep breath, and turned away from Chase. "She's right. This can't be fixed. I can't be fixed."

It was the first time in months that House had mentioned Wilson. The use of _she_ caught Chase's ear too. Amber was a hallucination, so she was a figment of House's consciousness. What she said, was what House felt deep down as well. It was what House was feeling.

"Mom's dead. Kutner's dead. She says one day, I'm going to kill someone with my own bare hands… I nearly did that today. I don't want that. I don't want to kill anyone. I've got blood on my hands, Chase."

House turned to eye the low ledge between him and the precipitous drop six floors down, and he turned away from Chase. Chase felt his heart stutter, and he stumbled toward House. "House, don't – "

The wall was at least four feet high, and it was a significant obstacle for House to surmount. House evidently knew it, because he whirled around. "Don't come any closer!" a hysterical edge was evident in House's voice. "_Please_. Don't!"

"Don't do this, House." Chase pleaded. He took another tiny step forward. "Please. We'll do anything it takes – things will get better."

"It won't." House stared distractedly out over the Princeton cityscape. "I've tried, but it never gets better."

_Ketamine_, thought Chase. It had been a shining beacon of hope in that brief period of time, only for it all to crash and burn spectacularly, culminating in the mess with Tritter.

"Trust me, House." Chase felt his eyes burn. "Please. Don't do this. We need you."

"No one needs me," House replied matter-of-factly. "I need them, but no one needs me back." He hoisted his bad leg over the ledge. "So it's okay. Tell Cuddy I'm sorry that she'll need to clean up after me."

(Years later, the image of House letting himself fall off the rooftop would remain seared in Chase's mind. And it would shock him that House looked relieved, that he was finally being set free from his miserable life in this world.

But that's years later.)

It was like everything was occurring in slow-motion. Chase willed his legs to move faster, but it still felt like he was weighed down by a ton of rocks. He could feel his every heartbeat, could hear every harsh breath his lungs expelled, could hear the rush of blood in his very veins. He lunged over the ledge desperately, fingers scrabbling at thin air before miraculously, against all odds, he clutched at House's wrist.

It was instinctive, Chase knew, that House wrapped his long fingers around Chase's hand. But at that instant, Chase took it as a sign that House did want to live – he just didn't know _how_.

"Don't let go," he urged breathlessly. "Please don't let go, House. _Please_."

House's fingers were wrapped tight around Chase's wrist. But as he looked up and into Chase's eyes, the desolation and misery plain in his blue eyes, Chase knew what was going to happen next.

"House. God, don't," Chase begged. "_Don't let go." _

House slowly slackened his grip around Chase's wrist, and let himself become deadweight. Chase could feel his palms begin to sweat, and House beginning to slip from his grasp. Chase could feel his entire world narrow to just the two of them at this very moment, all sound and sight fading away to just the image of House hanging from a building, hanging from his very hands, in front of him. Chase scrabbled desperately to hold onto House, his ribs pressed painfully against the concrete ledge as he lifted a foot to plant it against the ledge for added leverage.

"I can't make her stop," House admitted. "I don't know what to do."

"We'll figure it out together. Just hang on. Please."

"I can't sleep. I'm losing my mind, and it's all I have left." House closed his eyes, and then shuddered. "I really did it this time. Wilson left. He's not coming back. He's gone." It felt almost surreal when House started to pry at Chase's fingers, getting him to let go. "I tried my best, but it wasn't enough. Dad was right. Being sorry isn't good enough."

Chase couldn't quite follow House's erratic train of thought. All he was thinking was _please don't die please don't die_. All he could focus on was to hold on to House while House scrabbled desperately at his fingers, scratching and prying, trying to get him to let go. "No," he repeated again and again. "_No_."

"I shouldn't have come back," House finally said, brokenly. He gave up trying to get Chase to let go, letting his right arm drop and dangle. "I shouldn't have come back. I should have stayed there, on the bus. It doesn't hurt there."

Chase found himself crying. "Please don't, House. I promise, we'll figure this out. Please… just hang on. Don't give up."

"Sorry," House mouthed. "I'm so sorry." He began to wrench his wrist, and it was all Chase could do to not scream in frustration.

House was almost out of Chase's grasp when Chase felt a warm body press up against him, another pair of hands joining him in his struggle to keep House _alive_.

Foreman. Oh god, Foreman. Finally.

Between the two of them, they managed to haul House up over the ledge and onto the relative safety of the rooftop despite the older man's struggling. They collapsed into a messy heap at the foot of the low wall, a tangle of limbs and bodies. For a moment, it was chaos as House struggled against the grip of his two team members.

Chase somehow managed to wrap his arms around House.

"Let me _go_," House panted, and it frightened Chase, hearing House so desperate and out of control and ready to give up. He'd never seen House like that before. Angry, yes. Depressed, yes. But never so desolate and broken, and never had he once given up. The rough noise that ripped itself from House's throat just made Chase hold House tighter. "She won't _stop_."

"I know," Chase didn't know how or why, but he started rocking. He rocked back and forth, House's face buried in his shoulder. It was an innate movement meant to soothe. "It's going to get better, I swear. We'll make her stop, and things will get better."

"I'm sorry…" House moaned. He clenched his fist in Chase's shirt and pulled on it like a child seeking comfort. "I'm so sorry."

Chase knew House wasn't apologizing for what had just transpired.

"I know… I know…"

Chase exchanged glances with Foreman, who looked more shaken than Chase had ever seen. He was sprawled on the ground, as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing with his own eyes.

"He doesn't believe me…"

"You tried your best…" Chase gestured for the sedative, which Foreman handed over with shaking hands. "You tried your best, and that is all that matters. He'll realize it one day. He will."

A strangled noise from House. "I killed them. I killed them."

"No no no no," Chase replied fiercely. "It's not your fault… We're going to get you better, and things are going to be okay."

House squirmed in Chase's hold in one last bid to escape, but Chase just squeezed him tighter. When was the last time House had been hugged by anyone?

"I'm sorry," Chase whispered. "But please, trust me."

House began to thrash for real when he felt the needle of the syringe pierce his skin. But the sedative soon took effect, draining him of his fight. Slowly, his head drooped, his limbs lost their tension, and he all but collapsed into Chase's arms.

Chase sat at the foot of the rooftop ledge, House limp in his arms; Foreman sat a few feet away, breathing hard, not quite believing what he'd just witnessed.

Three days later, Wilson would send his email. But it was too late.

Guilt. It was a powerful motivator.

* * *

><p>AN: Not how House became the way he was, but still a turning point in this story. I have it all planned out. Real life is becoming slightly more forgiving, so I think I can safely say that updates for this and other stories will start to come more regularly. Next chapter, we have the inevitable: Wilson returns to Princeton.


	10. Chapter 10

Ellen Hurn was fifty-seven going on fifty-eight, five foot four and portly. She loved Frank Sinatra, hated Lionel Richie but could tolerate Celine Dion. Her chestnut brown hair was cut short but chic, and she had green eyes that seemed to change shades with the weather. Her thumbs were particularly stubby and ugly, and she liked wearing checkered shirts. She was married, with two sons – one in college and the other a lawyer – and she loved to cook.

She could be gentle and soothing, but she could also be relentlessly probing and persistent; she wasn't afraid to dish out harsh but sobering advice when necessary. She could read people as well as she could cook, but more importantly, she knew how to make them feel safe. She was trustworthy, dedicated and damn fine at her job.

She had entered semi-retirement a year ago, but at the request of a dear friend of hers, who ran a psychiatric hospital, she had come out of it to take on the case of one particularly challenging patient.

Every session with this patient, however, was nail-bitingly challenging. Some of the most challenging in her entire career, which spanned thirty years, in fact. It was to be expected, since her patient was the famous Dr Gregory House. She had heard all about him – rude, abrasive, almost a genius, selfish, misanthropic… the list of negative adjectives could go on forever.

But Greg was more than that.

After six months of therapy, she had managed to peel back some of the many layers he had donned in order to protect himself. Inside, she found a man who carried the weight of burdens so heavy that others less strong would have crumbled under by now. She found repressed feelings of unworthiness and abusiveness and self-loathing from an abusive childhood; guilt, so much guilt, from people he couldn't save; an intense dislike of, almost a phobia of, change, thanks to years of moving about when young; and an inability to form connections with most people. When he did form connections, they were deep and strong and he was likely to do anything for them. Anything. Even frying his brain. It was almost scary, how far he was willing to go for people he loved. It was bordering unhealthy.

She hadn't quite known what to diagnose him with. It had taken two, three sessions with him before she finally had settled on _major depressive episode_ and _PTSD_.

It had been a tough six months. House had come far. He was no longer the desperate, broken and defeated man whom she had met, and whose entire world revolved around his work and a single friend.

She surveyed the man sitting at her dining table, tucking into her famed chicken stew. She knew he used to be extremely confident, almost cocky, but in front of her now was a man who was quieter and more cautious after his brain - the only thing he admitted could trust – had betrayed him.

It had taken much work, and there had been many changes made to his life.

Wednesday afternoons were reserved for therapy sessions, as well as to provide a break from his grueling work schedule, which honestly, was 24/7/365. She made it clear that she was always available for him, and was just a phone call away. More pills had been added to his regiment – pills for anxiety, pills to help overcome the chronic insomnia and get a full night's sleep, a new pain regiment that relied less heavily on opoids – and there was a fixed regiment and schedule that he had to follow. No more randomly popping pills. And if the pain ramped up, they would talk about whether it was psychosomatic, or just a bad pain day, before she would personally come over to administer breakthrough pain medication as quickly as she could.

"How," Hurn bent over, her elbows on the counter, and slid the glass of milk across to him, "would you feel about Dr Wilson coming back?"

House hesitated, his spoon hanging in mid-air as he contemplated his question. She observed a spark of hope in his blue eyes, which quickly dimmed as he assessed his reality.

"He won't come back," he said quietly, ducking his head.

"What if he does?"

Silence.

"Greg – "

"_He won't_," House snapped back testily. "He said – he just _won't_, okay?"

Hurn observed as House's hand immediately wandered to his pocket, where his Ativan was. She watched, as he clenched his fist hard, and gradually withdrew it. "How's the stew?"

House shoveled potatoes and chicken into his mouth, eyes narrowing. He didn't wait to swallow before saying accusingly, "You just want me to praise your cooking. Again."

Hurn grinned and shrugged. "Always nice to know it's good."

House grunted and focused on dipping his baguette into the stew and stuffing it into his mouth.

"Tell me about your latest case."

"Nothing spectacular about it."

"Uh-huh," Hurn made her skepticism clear. "You had to reschedule our session last week, which makes it pretty damn well noteworthy in my books."

As House launched into a play-by-play account of his latest case, Hurn sat down and devoted her attention to him. He was still uncomfortable with having the full attention of someone. Once in a while, he squirmed in the chair, fidgeting anxiously. Hurn took note of it. At least it was better than last time, when he would keep deflecting.

"How do you feel about re-assuming the position of department head again?"

House froze. He began picking at his lip, and jiggling his left leg anxiously. "Um…" he said, "I – Um."

"I just want to know how you feel."

House hesitated. "Chase is doing a very good job," he says slowly.

"And…?"

"Foreman doesn't dare to take risks, but he does. And he doesn't mind paperwork."

"I want to know how _you_ feel, Greg."

"I hate paperwork."

"Yes… and?"

"I like… what I'm doing now."

"The half-days on Wednesday?" House nodded. Hurn could see the slight shame in his face, a conditioned response to what he perceived as weakness and mediocrity. "It's okay to like that. It's nice to have a break in the middle of the week. If you consider having sessions with me a break anyway."

House didn't respond to her attempt to lighten things up, which spoke volumes about how he really felt. "Mmm," he managed distractedly. "Yeah."

"If you don't feel up to it, Dr Chase will just continue as interim department head. You're not putting anyone out."

House exhaled heavily. "I.." he said slowly, "I don't want to go back as department head yet."

"Okay then." Hurn smiled reassuringly. "It's fine. Now, how's the new pain regiment going?"

House made a face. He hated this particular topic. "Fine."

"It is working, right?"

"Yes."

"You are having fewer episodes of breakthrough pain, so that's good. Any haziness from the narcotics prescribed?"

"No."

"Sleep…?"

"Good."

"Nightmares?"

"Fine," House growled. It was more of a _stop nagging_ kind of growl, not one fueled by true resentment. "Everything's good… _For now_."

Hurn ignored the fatalistic comment. "I have some mint chocolate chip ice-cream. You up for it?"

"From Modesto's?" House straightened, a predatory gleam appearing in his eyes.

"Modesto's," Hurn confirmed. "I wouldn't settle for anything less for something as important as mint chocolate chip ice-cream."

After serving up the ice cream, Hurn took a seat from across House. She watched him intently. House's nose flared in annoyance as he realised what she was doing.

"I knew it," he growled, waving a spoon at her. "Spit it out."

"What?" Hurn asked innocently.

"Knew you wouldn't buy Modesto's mint chocolate chip just to ask me how I would feel about Wilson coming back," House narrowed his eyes at her. "There's something else you want to ask me." His face twisted just for the briefest moment before he dropped his head to stare at his ice-cream. "Mom used to do this whole bribing thing too," he said softly.

Hurn gave him a moment. "I was going to ask you whether you feel up to going to visit your dad. I was just talking to Dr Whitley, and he mentioned that your dad has been extremely open and communicative."

"After his initial hostility. You forgot to mention that."

"Well, yes," Hurn admitted. The session she'd had with House Senior and House Junior had been… Well, it was ranked way up high in her list of Challenging Therapy Sessions. Perhaps it was No. 1.

It had taken several sessions before John House had finally let his own defenses down to admit that some of the disciplinary actions he had carried out in the past had been… excessive. It had taken even longer for him to be able to take that step to admit that he needed therapy too.

It had been a horribly tough month.

"Your weekly phone conversations have been going well. I'm not asking you to let him move in or anything, I just think that you need to actually meet him in order for your relationship with him to improve further."

"You mean _I've_ hit a plateau."

"No," Hurn frowned. "I'm saying that you need to take a step further to for there to actually be more healing. There is only so much you can do over the phone."

"What if I don't want to meet him?"

"It's entirely up to you. As your therapist, I'm saying that I think you're ready to meet him. And Dr Whitley says your dad is ready to meet you too. But ultimately, it's your decision."

House eyed Hurn suspiciously. "You're not going to tell me that – "

"Greg," Hurn interrupted. "I promised five months ago that I wouldn't push you or manipulate you into doing something you didn't want to do. That promise still stands."

House seemed a little surprised at that, which disappointed Hurn. That was still something they had to work on.

"I don't want to meet him," House finally said. "_Yet_."

Hurn leaned back into her chair. "That's good enough for me."

* * *

><p>"Chase."<p>

Chase spun around from the whiteboard, only to see the last person he expected to see.

"Wilson," he breathed in disbelief. "What are you doing here?"

Wilson took a hesitant step into the conference room. "Um," he nervously ran a hand through his hair. "I'm moving back to Princeton."

Chase could only gape. It had been over a year – any hopes of Wilson coming back had long since been banished. In fact, it seemed like _eons_ ago that it was the night of his bachelor party.

A year ago, watching House wallow in misery, Chase would have done anything to get Wilson back. Six months ago, after witnessing House's breakdown, he would have done anything to keep Wilson away from House.

But now, he didn't know what to feel.

"Where's House?"

As much as Chase would have liked to chase Wilson away, he knew he had no right to. There was just something about Wilson and House's relationship that he, that _no one_, could understand. And as much as Wilson had taken many missteps in the past year, he had stood by House for _years_ before that.

Not to mention the fact that House actually wanted Wilson back. Chase still caught him gazing at the balcony and what used to be Wilson's office every now and then.

Wilson and House meddled in one another's lives all the time. But Chase couldn't meddle in their lives. He didn't possess _that_ degree of a relationship with House.

Chase forced himself to take a deep, measured breath. Calmly, he capped the whiteboard marker in his hand. "He didn't come in today."

It was frighteningly easy to fall back into what had been a routine almost over a year ago. "Why?" Wilson's eyes widened in concern. "He called in sick?"

Chase chose his words carefully. "He isn't in on Wednesday afternoons."

Wilson looked down at his watch. "It's four in the afternoon. It's way too early for him to go home."

Again, Chase treaded carefully. "He didn't go home."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. House's team members had lied to him many times over; he could tell whenever they were lying through their teeth. "Then where is he?"

"A lot of things have changed over the past year, Wilson."

"I know that."

Chase cocked an eyebrow. "Do you?"

Wilson at least had the decency to blush, dropping his head. "I just want to see him, let him know that I'm moving – "

At that point, the sound of door of the inner office opening caused them both to turn their heads.

House stood there, hand still on the door handle, a stunned expression on his face. Wilson noted that his hair was cropped shorter now.

House's gaze lingered on Wilson for a long time. With much visible effort, he gathered himself together, his eyes flittering back and forth between Chase and Wilson. He swallowed hard, then physically turned away from Wilson. He transferred his cane into his left hand while expertly keeping the door open, his right hand going to his coat pocket, gripping something in it.

"Um," It took House several tries to actually make himself heard. "I… forgot to take… um," he said breathlessly, his eyes looking everywhere but at Wilson, "I forgot to take my meds. I was going home, since I've finished my session with Hurn, but… I think, um, I'm going back to Hurn's," He rambled to Chase, and Chase only, ignoring Wilson. "I… I need the day off tomorrow. Maybe Friday as well."

Of all the ways he'd imagined meeting House again, this was not the scenario Wilson had imagined. Avoidance had been one of the scenario's he'd imagined, but he hadn't expected to be _ignored_.

House limped quickly over to a shelf and snatched up a small bag. "Uh," he said, his eyes steadfastly on the glass door. "I have to go now. Bye, Chase." Still, he did not look at, or address Wilson. He practically charged out the door, as though escaping from a fire.

"Shit," Chase cursed under his breath.

Wilson barely had time to react before Chase was ordering him to "stay here", and running out after House.

As Chase exited the conference room, he caught sight of House disappearing round the corner. He gave chase, muttering apologies as he pushed people aside.

They ended up in a toilet, House shutting himself in a stall for the handicapped.

Chase could hear rapid, uneven breathing from inside the stall. "House?"

"Not a good time, Chase." House's breathing sped up, and he was almost gasping for air. "Really not good."

"Okay, listen to me, I can explain…"

"I need to talk to Hurn," House cut him off. "I really, _really_ need to talk to Hurn."

"Okay, wait. House, I want you to take an Ativan."

There was a slight pause, then the sound of a fist slamming against the stall. "I don't need it." The panicked edge in House's voice set off warning bells in Chase's mind. "I just need to talk to Hurn." This was followed by the soft sounds of buttons clacking, which Chase took to be House dialing Hurn's number.

"Take it, House," Chase urged softly. "Just take one pill."

There was no reply from House.

"I'm hallucinating," House blurted out. He must have reached Hurn on the phone. "I saw Wilson. I'm _hallucinating_."

Damn. That was not what Chase had thought – he thought House had been unable to deal with the fact that Wilson was right there in front of him, or, he had been trying to make things easy for Wilson, leaving right away. He had not expected House to believe himself to be hallucinating.

"I didn't take any drugs. I didn't take any alcohol either."

"House – "

"Can you come, please. Please come get me out – "

"House," Chase said loudly through the door. "You're not hallucinating. Wilson's here. I saw him too."

There was a long pause. The only sound in the empty toilet was that of House's heavy breathing.

Then, House's hand appeared under the door. "Hurn wants to talk to you," House intoned. His voice had taken on a strange flat affect, though his breathing was still definitely off.

Chase winced and took the phone. He turned away from the stall, contemplating leaving the toilet to speak in private to Hurn. But he decided it was better to stay with House.

"_Dr Chase." _

"Dr Hurn."

"_I am waiting for an explanation." _

Shit, Hurn was pissed. She was not a nice person when she was pissed off. "I have no idea – Wilson appeared in the office ten minutes ago looking for House. He's coming back in two weeks' time."

"_What do you mean _he's coming back in two weeks' time_?" _

As though on cue, House's breathing sped up.

"House, take an Ativan," Chase urged aloud, then, addressing Hurn over the phone, "He can take an Ativan right?"

"_Get him to take an Ativan." _

"Hurn says take an Ativan, House." Chase waited until he heard the tell-tale click of the pill bottle cap being removed before he directed his attentions back at the phone. "He's taking one right now."

"_I'm coming over. Just stay with him." _

* * *

><p>Cuddy stalked down the hallway of the hospital. Everyone scrambled out of her way – they knew that look. It was <em>that<em>. It was the same look she had when she snipped ties off and whipped the hospital into shape.

As Cuddy spotted Wilson exiting the Diagnostics department, she hollered down the hallway, "Wilson!"

Wilson spun around. Cuddy hastened her steps, not caring about the stunned looks everyone was trying to hide.

She yanked Wilson by the elbow into the conference room. "What are you _doing_ here," she hissed.

Wilson was taken aback by Cuddy's reaction. "I just wanted to –"

"We were supposed to meet in my office at five-thirty. This is _not_ five-thirty, and this is _not_ my office."

"I just wanted to say hi to House and – " he quailed under her glare. "It didn't turn out so well."

"Of course it didn't turn out well. You stayed away for a _year_!"

At the accusatory tone, Wilson felt his hackles raise. "I had a right to step away from him."

"I am not saying you were wrong to do so. I'm saying that you can't just waltz back into his life twelve months after cutting off all contact, without a warning, expecting everything to go swimmingly well!"

"I emailed him!"

"Six months ago! Twice!"

"He didn't even reply me."

"He was… busy."

"Yeah, _right_," Wilson bit back, almost viciously. There was a stunned silence, then Wilson took a step back, shocked at the tone of voice which had escaped him. "I'm sorry," he murmured faintly. "I didn't mean that." He sank down into the couch that hadn't been there when he'd left. "It's just… it's been tough lately."

Cuddy observed the man in front of him, whom she had not seen for face-to-face for slightly over three months. Their communication was largely over brief phone calls and emails now. It was inevitable, she knew. When their lives were so busy, and they lived a distance apart, with no opportunity like work to allow them to see each other every day… drifting apart was an inevitability.

She flopped down onto the couch next to Wilson, angling her body towards him. Wilson knew her well enough to know that it was an invitation for him to go on talking.

"I found a lump six weeks ago," Wilson ventured hesitantly. "Right testicle." At Cuddy's horrified gasp, he hastily continued. "It was benign, thank goodness."

"Oh thank god."

Wilson smiled wryly. "It was a hell of a scare. And it made me… reconsider certain things. While waiting for the test results, I realized that I wanted to be back here. With you. With Rachel, and my friends, and colleagues, and people who I really know."

Cuddy opened her mouth to speak, only to find that words wouldn't come. Throwing caution to the wind, she clarified, "With House."

"Yeah," Wilson affirmed. "With House."

"Wilson…"

"I know, I know. It's been a year. But I've been wanting to come back for several months now. This was the catalyst that spurred me on to actually do something about it."

"A lot of things have changed."

"I – " Wilson chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, a lot of things have changed. House practically ignored me just now."

"I heard."

"Chase called you to come do damage control?"

"Like I said, many things have changed."

"Cuddy…" Wilson plucked hesitantly at his fingers. "How is he?"

Cuddy was very rarely stumped. So it was a shock to Wilson that she stammered, seemingly at a loss for words. "I… He's fine. Better. He missed you terribly, we all could tell…" Her voice trailed off, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence.

Wilson was evidently uncomfortable with discussing what had happened, for he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "So," he asked jokingly, "do you have a job opening for me?"

* * *

><p>"You saw him?"<p>

Hurn sat down on the toilet seat in the stall adjacent to House's. "Yeah," she confirmed, sliding her foot into the gap between the stall's wall, letting House see that she was there. "I walked past the department and he was there."

Hurn let the silence linger in the air, waiting.

"He said he was tired of me."

"The cargo elevator is nearby. We could sneak out."

"Why do you think he's back?"

"He's your friend, Greg."

"I killed his girlfriend."

"You didn't kill her. It was an accident."

"I'm _poisonous_."

"Greg," Hurn interjected sharply. "You're not."

They fell into silence again.

"I want to talk to him."

That was not what Hurn was expecting at all. She did a double-take. "Are you sure?"

"It's _Wilson_."

The way House said it… The way he said _Wilson_.

And that, Hurn thought, was precisely the problem. The way he said it, like his whole world had crumbled without Wilson. With all that hope in his voice. That was the problem.

* * *

><p>"House."<p>

"Wilson."

"Hello."

"Hi."

"How have you been?"

"Okay… fine, I guess."

"I emailed you six months ago."

"I've been busy. I didn't get to check my email for about four, nearly five months."

"Why?"

"I was… I took a leave of absence."

"I forgot your personal email account."

"That's okay."

"…"

"…"

"I found a lump in my right testicle. And as I was waiting for the test results, I realized that all I wanted to do was actually have some fun in my life."

"…"

"And I realized that I have the most fun with you."

"…"

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"You sound a little breathless."

"…"

"House?"

"Okay, I'm not okay."

"… What do you mean?"

"I had a breakdown and I was institutionalized. And I'm in therapy now, which is why I have Wednesdays off. Chase is the interim department head as I try to get my act together. You see that woman out there who looks like she can't wait to dig into all our dysfunctionality? That's my therapist."

"…"

"So yes, that's my exciting life while you were gone."

"…"

"…"

"I miss having fun, House."

"Welcome back, Wilson."

* * *

><p><em>AN: So much for regular updates. My muse has all but disappeared. The irony is, I have so much more time to write now that real life has settled down. I had to really get down to grind this chapter. Hopefully it sparks something off! Make what you will of that exchange between House and Wilson. It sets things up for what is to come. Here's hoping I get my writing juices flowing again. _


	11. Chapter 11

Wilson stumbled out of the shower and toweled his hair, staring blearily at himself in the mirror. He had moved into House's apartment in the interim as he tied up the loose ends of his move back to Princeton.

Brown, his former deputy Head, gladly relinquished his position. "The paperwork," he had said, "and the schmoozing. And the donors and the complaints and the politics… No thanks." Everyone else welcomed him back with open arms. There was even a modest Welcome Back party for him.

As much as Wilson expected to dislike it all, it was easier now, an entire year after Amber's passing. People moved on. And Wilson had too. He no longer felt like he needed the entire world to stop moving on while he grieved and tried to heal the wound that was raw and painful.

As Wilson blow-dried his hair, he thought about his first few days back at work. He had heard rumors about what had gone on in the time he was gone. Rumors of House going off the rails, House going mad for real, House trying to kill himself.

He ignored them all. He also ignored the small number of people who didn't welcome him back gladly – Chase, for one. And to his surprise, a smattering of people – Nurse Yvonne, the night janitor and a few others – who had a soft spot, or even cared about, House. The rest of House's team was ambivalent and wary. It was glaring that there was no longer bumbling, cheerful but sharp and intelligent Kutner with them.

Wilson unplugged his blow-dryer and stashed it in the corner of the cabinet. He left the bathroom and entered the kitchen, valiantly trying to ignore the row of pill bottles neatly lined up on a shelf as he walked past.

It was much easier to go back to what things were _before_, than to have to deal with whatever had happened in a year.

On another note, however, what they currently had right now was in no way like before.

House grunted a good morning as he left the kitchen with a mug of coffee in his hands, blearily heading straight to the bathroom for his turn. Wilson braced himself for a remark about his hair or the use of a blow dryer obscenely early in the day, but there was nothing.

Wilson shrugged on his somber black coat and adjusted his tie. "I'm attending a funeral today." A twinge of reget accompanied that remark. Maria Romero had come into his care two months after he and Amber had started dating. He had promised to do his very best for her – especially since she and her husband, Emmanuel, had given up everything back in Mexico in order to seek treatment for her Stage III breast cancer – but his hasty departure from Princeton had him leaving them in the lurch. He felt guilty, and was thus going for the funeral. "It's at 11am, and my office door will be locked, so there's no use trying to bang it down at lunchtime?"

"Okay."

"I'll see you at the end of the day."

House shuffled awkwardly on the spot. "Can't." He cast a quick glance at Wilson before looking away. "It's Wednesday. Leaving early today."

Wilson tried to find an appropriate response, but couldn't. He'd honestly forgotten about House's appointments with the therapist on Wednesdays. "Okay."

"See you later then."

"Bye."

Things were _not_ awkward at all.

* * *

><p>"I made burgers for dinner." House was sprawled on the couch, eyes on his television. "Yours is in the microwave."<p>

Wilson just barely managed to stop himself from raising his eyebrows. He hesitated for the briefest moment before grabbing his plate and a beer before settling down on the couch. There was two feet of space between him and House. They sat there quietly, House nursing his can of Coke and Wilson juggling the beer and the burger.

"Bonnie called," Wilson mentioned casually during a commercial break. "She found an apartment for me, and I went to take a look just now. It's great. I'll be able to move in by the end of the week."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Okay," House finally said. Then abruptly, he asked, "How was the funeral?"

"It was a small one." Emmanuel had spent almost everything on Maria's treatment. There had only been a few people. "But it was beautiful."

He neglected to mention the fact that he had not _attended_ it per se. He had stood some distance away. Martin, the oncologist who had taken over from Wilson, had told him that Emmanuel wasn't happy, to say the least, that the Dr Wilson whom he had entrusted Maria's life to, and who had promised to do his very best, had left on such short notice, handing the case off to a more junior doctor.

"W.H. Auden?"

"The Mexican equivalent, I think."

"Predictable."

Silence lapsed again. Wilson felt himself begin to drift in a pleasant food-induced haze. He never knew House was such a competent cook.

He must have dozed off, for he was startled awake by the sound of House washing up in the kitchen. Wilson's plate and empty bottle of beer were gone from the coffee table. House must've cleared them. Wilson tempered the feeling of unease.

Wilson dragged himself up from the couch, only to nearly walk smack into House, who hovered awkwardly in the space between the kitchen and the living room. Wilson was instantly more awake.

House looked like he had a question, or something to say.

Wilson took a step back immediately. "You scared me, sneaking up on me like that." It wasn't the first time this had happened. Several times over the past week, House had appeared to be on the verge of asking Wilson a question, only to hastily retreat after seemingly losing the courage to do so, despite the fact that he seemed to be almost bursting to ask the question.

The old House would have asked it point-blank, no matter how intrusive or how offensive.

House peered down at the floor intently. He mumbled something that Wilson couldn't quite catch. "What?"

House seemed to deflate just a little, resolve Wilson hadn't even noticed at first seeping away. Before he could probe further though, House's doorbell rang. Relief dashed across House's face as he limped over to the door.

"Noooooo," Wilson heard House whine emphatically. "I was expecting Candy."

"Very funny," Cuddy shot back immediately, obviously amused. "Like you'll have hookers over while Wilson is staying with you."

"Threesome, foursome, orgy. It's all very easy to arrange." House paused, then added, "What do you want?"

"My neighbor's daughter is having a house party. It's her graduation, so I decided to let it go. Rachel can't sleep with that much noise around so…" House must have made some sort of face, for Cuddy added defensively, "We'll be gone by midnight!"

"Don't you have any other friends?"

Wilson noted painfully that in the two weeks that he'd been staying with House, he had yet to have such a casual, comfortable conversation with House.

"Friends who don't have families of their own, or stay up past eleven? Not in a five mile radius. Come on. You're going to say yes – you haven't seen Rachel for weeks – so let's skip past the bit where I have to grovel or give you time off clinic duty."

Wilson cleared his throat as he stepped out from his corner from where he wasn't visible to Cuddy. "Hi Cuddy." Noticing Rachel, who was cuddling a stuffed giraffe in her arms, he cooed, "Hi Rach."

Rachel smiled shyly and leaned further into Cuddy. Cuddy grinned and stepped into the apartment as House rolled his eyes and shut the door behind her with his crutch. "Well, I did bring some dessert over." She shrugged off the diaper bag as Wilson took it from her. "Right on top in there."

House peered over Cuddy's shoulder as Wilson retrieved the box. "Banana cream pie from Tom's?" He ignored Rachel's little hand smacking his chin. "Maybe I'm okay with you invading my apartment after all."

When Wilson emerged from the kitchen with plates and cutlery, he was surprised to see Rachel crawling from where she was propped against the arm of the couch to where House was seated, leaning against House's side. She leaned in towards House and clutched her giraffe to her chest.

House seemed remarkably at ease with her.

Wilson cleared his throat, though he had no idea why. "Where's Cuddy?"

"Bathroom."

Wilson handed a slice of pie to House – who remained extremely still with Rachel leaning against him – and settled in next to Rachel with his own serving of pie. "I've missed Tom's," he sighed, his mouth full of banana cream bliss. "His pies are unbeatable."

Cuddy plopped down in the armchair and snagged her own plate. "I wanted the cherry pie, but they were out of it."

House cut in. "Banana cream is _so_ much better anyway."

Cuddy made a face. "Do you know how much fat there is in the cream?"

"Huh." House steadily ignored a wandering hand of Rachel's that smacked his shoulder as she tried to tug herself to a standing position. He didn't make any move to embrace her or hold her, but he put up with her grabby hands. "Yeah, I guess your ass doesn't need anymore plumping up."

Wilson hid his smile as Cuddy gave House a warning nudge with the tip of her flats and stabbed her fork in the air. "I am _this_ close to making you do clinic duty."

"I don't _do_ clinic duty anymore." The way House said it was matter-of-fact. "So there."

There was an awkward silence, during which Wilson avoided looking at both Cuddy and House. Instead, he mashed a little banana on his plate, scooped up some cream, and gave some to Rachel. The smack of her lips was adorable, if Wilson said so himself.

As they sat and chatted in low tones, Wilson noticed that Cuddy kept shooting him and House weird looks. He tried to keep from squirming in his seat unsuccessfully.

At some point during the evening, Rachel drifted off to sleep, head in Wilson's lap and one leg propped up on House's left knee. Her face was buried in the giraffe's neck. Wilson ran his fingers through her soft hair and smiled.

"Do you ever wash that toy?" House asked as he got up from his seat, gently setting down Rachel's foot. "Because there is an epic amount of drool and snot on it."

Cuddy sniffed and reached down to gather Rachel into her arms. "Yes, I do." She settled down in the space House had vacated. "Every single week."

House rolled his eyes. "See yourself out later."

"Good night to you too."

Wilson checked his watch surreptitiously. It was just past nine.

_Stop caring so much_, he thought to himself. _It's none of your business. He's fine. _

"So."

Wilson snapped out of his reverie. "What?"

Cuddy stabbed a slice of banana, scraping off the cream. "How's everything?"

Wilson bristled at the too-nonchalant tone. "Fine."

"Really."

"Cuddy – "

"Look, Wilson, I'm just saying. You were away for a long period of time. Then you suddenly appear and you want everything to go back to normal? The likelihood of that happening is zero."

A tiny part of Wilson agreed with Cuddy. The stilted conversations, the way House kept deferring to him, how House had actually helped him do the dishes, how House no longer snatched food of Wilson's plate, sometimes going as far as to _pay_ for Wilson's food… Things were different.

Yet, for the most part, Wilson just wanted everything to go back to what it had been before. That was what he wanted.

"Everything's fine." He tried to not sound defensive. "Really. We're getting along just fine." He hastily tried to change the subject. "When did he and Rachel start getting so close anyway?"

"That," Cuddy commented bluntly, her raised eyebrow letting Wilson know she was onto him – still, she granted him the subject change, "sounds like you're jealous."

"I'm not."

"She saw you occasionally, Wilson. You were away. She met House much more frequently."

It was Wilson's turn to raise his eyebrows. "There's a _thing_ going on between you and House?"

Cuddy didn't seem fazed by the accusation. "Nope. Having Rachel over and interacting with Rachel was just good for him."

The way Cuddy put it was just odd. But Wilson didn't probe. He had a feeling he didn't want to know how exactly Rachel had been "good" for House.

"He's always had a way with kids," he acquiesced. "Though he refuses to admit it."

Wilson got the feeling that he'd missed out on a lot over the past year. Many things had changed in the hospital, in House, in Cuddy's life, and basically… everywhere. His favourite deli wasn't even in business anymore. The owner had packed up and moved away to Malibu, where his son, an entertainment lawyer, was based.

He felt out of time.

"A lot of things have changed," he hedged hesitantly. "It's a little unsettling."

Cuddy snorted, though not ungracefully. "You've noticed."

"You and House…" Something in their dynamic had changed, though Wilson couldn't tell what. "Is there really nothing going on?"

"I don't think of him that way."

Wilson raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

"You know how that would go: first it'll be exciting, and passionate, and novel. Then after a while, we'll start to clash in our opinions, at home and at work. We're both not that great at drawing the line work and life. Then there will be the inevitable blow up – something catastrophic, maybe him driving his car into my house, knowing him – and then there will be recriminations, and things will be more than awkward."

Wilson took a moment to process this. "Well, you've obviously _not_ thought about this before."

Cuddy had the decency to blush slightly, ducking her head. "It won't work out," she murmured, stroking Rachel's hair. "He's changed, but it still won't work out."

"People don't change."

"You've changed," Cuddy said softly.

The way she said it… it sounded like it was a bad thing. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Yes. And no."

"House has changed too."

"And I don't know whether that's a good or bad thing." Cuddy frowned. "A lot happened over the past year. And I think you and House should talk about what happened."

"I don't think that's necessary," Wilson replied hastily. He scooped up the plates and cutlery as he got up from his seat on the couch, heading to the kitchen. "Give me a moment, let me wash up."

Cuddy came to stand at the doorway, her arms folded as she leant against the wall. "You can't avoid this. You can't just suppress it and expect it all to go away."

Wilson set the dishes down on the counter and pressing both hands to the countertop, leaned heavily on it. "Why dig up the past when it's just going to make us unhappy?"

"Because what happened wasn't just some minor _tiff_!" Cuddy was exasperated, to say the least. "Wilson, you cut off all ties with him after Amber died! He had a major depressive episode where he tried to _kill_ himself!"

Wilson winced at the mention of Amber. And at what had come after. "But everything is fine now."

"It's not!"

Wilson closed his eyes briefly. "Everything is going to work out in the end."

"That's very optimistic of you."

"I spent a long time trying to get over this, Cuddy. All I want to do is forget about it. It's not something I want to dwell over."

"You can't find healing if you refuse to acknowledge the problem, Wilson. It doesn't work that way. He's _changed_. He's in therapy."

"I don't – " Wilson was cut off by his phone ringing. "Hang on, it's the hospital…"

"Wilson, as a friend – "

Wilson held up his hand as he answered the phone, gesturing for Cuddy to hush. "I have to get back to the hospital," he finally said after the call ended. Seeing the look of protest on Cuddy's face, he added, "Everything is fine between me and House. Really." He shrugged on a sweatshirt and slipped his feet into a pair of trainers. "I really have to go."

Cuddy sighed. "I'll let myself out."

Wilson's eyebrows rose. "You have a key?"

"For emergencies."

"And there is nothing going on between the two of you."

"I think I said _for emergencies_."

Wilson opened the door and looked over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Cuddy."

There was a beat, then an audible sigh. "Drive carefully."

Wilson smiled back at Cuddy, let his gaze rake over Rachel's sleeping form, then left. As he walked to his car, there was a strange feeling in his stomach. Then he realised - it was relief.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yes, I am alive. The muse is just a little MIA nowadays. I miss the show terribly. Then there is also the obscene lack of time. But my stories will be completed, I promise. I only ask that you be patient. Reviews are also a lovely way to inspire and motivate, if that's worth anything. _


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